


Lady Sansa Lannister of Winterfell

by K_R_Closson, tasalmalin



Series: The North Remembers [3]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-20
Updated: 2016-06-06
Packaged: 2018-06-09 14:57:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 33,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6911797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/K_R_Closson/pseuds/K_R_Closson, https://archiveofourown.org/users/tasalmalin/pseuds/tasalmalin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sansa's just gotten the North in order, but now there's a crisis at the Wall. She might resent being the one who has to sort out all the world's problems, but it turns out she's quite good at it</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: Most of the heavy emotional stuff is done with, and the only real warnings are for some violence, but compared to the show even that might not be necessary. Except that this story is where we really go off the rails of what George R.R. Martin could possibly have intended for his series and blatantly make stuff up. In our defense, the Wall situation has not actually been resolved in the book or show, so it was guesswork or nothing.

Jaime Lannister enters the world screaming, her tiny fists clenching in outrage as the blood is washed from her. After a long, painful birth, Sansa think she’s the one who ought to be crying. Instead, she lets Wynn dab her damp forehead with a cloth and holds her arms out for her newest child.

“I hope you’re nothing like your namesake,” Sansa says, touching Jaime’s cheek with a finger.

Jaime stops crying and looks at Sansa before she immediately begins wailing again.

“Someone give her to my husband,” Sansa says. “I’m in need of a long sleep.”

“Of course, my lady,” Wynn says.

~*~

They’re stuck in the castle until Sansa heals enough to ride a horse, because she insists that she’s riding to the Wall when they go. 

The day finally comes, and Arya spends the entire morning racing around the courtyard, unable to keep her excitement hidden. Rickon’s more subdued, but there’s a smile on his face, excited to go see Jon. 

A small guard of Lannister men is going with them as well as Bronn, Ser Sandor, and Wynn. Osha refuses to go, saying she fled south for a reason. 

“Maybe you’ll finally get to kill something,” Sansa tells Ser Sandor as they ready the horses.

“I’d better.”

The two direwolves are going with them, but Eddard and Jaime are staying behind. The Wall is no place for babies. Maybe, when they’re older, Sansa will bring them to the Wall to meet their Uncle Jon, but this isn’t the right time.

Tommen is remaining at Winterfell as well. He’ll be safer here, and while Sansa can’t deny her brother and sister a chance to see Jon, Tommen doesn’t know him and has no need to make the dangerous journey. The boy comes to see them off, though, giving Arya an unneeded hand up to her horse.

“Stay safe, my lady,” Tommen says, as earnest as he is sweet.

Arya pats her sword hilt. “I’ll kill a bunch of wildlings for you.”

“You’re not killing anyone,” Sansa says.

Arya looks put out.

Tommen looks relieved that someone is looking out for Arya’s safety, since she is all too eager to throw herself headlong into danger.

“She’ll write you,” Sansa promises. “And we’ll be home before you’ve had a chance to miss us. Ser Sandor, are we ready to go?”

“We’ve been ready,” the knight says.

“Then we leave,” Sansa says. 

~*~

When they reach the Wall, they quickly discover they’re not the first to answer Jon’s pleas for help. 

Sansa expects Jon to be the first to greet them but instead it’s a stern-faced man with a stag on his armor.

“Stannis Baratheon?” Tyrion asks.

The man’s expression sours further. “Tyrion Lannister? A little far from home, aren’t you?”

Tyrion looks over at Sansa. “It wasn’t a difficult ride from Winterfell, was it?”

“Quite enjoyable,” Sansa says. She dismounts. “Lord Stannis Baratheon, I am Lady Sansa Lannister of Winterfell.”

The man next to Stannis, an older man with white hair and beard, puffs up. “You’re talking to  _ King  _ Stannis Baratheon.”

Sansa looks over at Tyrion. This is an unexpected and definitely unwelcome development. 

“Apologies, but I was at King Briar’s crowning,” Sansa says. “Of where are you King, Lord Stannis?”

The bearded man sucks in a breath.

“Enough, Ser Davos,” Stannis says, the first hint of a smile on his face. “She’s a child. Children can learn.”

Sansa’s temper flares at being so easily dismissed, but Tyrion’s hand on her wrist helps her keep her mouth shut. They’re not prepared to fight against Stannis and his army. They came here with a small party to help defend the Wall from wildlings, not to reenact the Battle of the Blackwater. 

“Your father was loyal to me,” Stannis tells her. “He wanted to put me on the Iron Throne.”

“And I spent months staring at his head mounted on a spike outside the castle after my betrothed ordered it removed from his body for that treason,” Sansa says. “Forgive me if I’m not eager to make the same mistakes as my father.”

Both Stannis and Ser Davos looks uncomfortable.

“I’m here to see my brother,” Sansa says, “Lord Commander Jon Snow. Is he here?”

If Stannis is here does that mean he’s taken control of the Wall? Is Jon imprisoned? Will this turn into a rescue mission?

There’s some commotion behind Stannis and his men part, allowing a figure in a billowing black cloak through. His hair has grown longer, and there is no hint of the smile Sansa’s used to seeing on his face, but that is Jon striding towards her.

“Jon!” Arya shrieks, leaping off her horse and running full tilt into him before Sansa can even take a step.

She collides with their brother, knocking him back a step.

“Arya?” he asks. He looks down at her like he doesn’t believe it. He looks up at Sansa, the same disbelief there. “Sansa?”

“And Rickon,” Sansa says. She helps Rickon off his horse, and he runs up to hug Arya and Jon. 

“I wrote you many sennights ago,” Jon says. “Where have you been?”

“I was in labor,” Sansa says, “and I couldn’t ride right away.”

Jon hugs his two siblings automatically, but his eyes are wide and staring at Sansa. “You gave birth?”

She grasps Tyrion’s hand. “Our second.”

Jon looks over at Tyrion. “You married my sister?”

Sansa laughs. “Don’t you get ravens up here? You know nothing, brother. Is there someplace we could speak? Much has been happening in the North.”

“Much has happened here,” Jon says.

Sansa’s eyes flick over to Stannis. “So we’ve seen.”

Jon nods. “We can talk.” He gives Arya and Rickon an extra squeeze. “I thought I’d never see you again.” He touches Rickon’s head, amazed. “I was told you were dead.”

“Bran and I escaped,” Rickon says. “Theon lied.”

“Bran,” Jon realizes. He looks around. “Have you -”

“He’s gone Beyond the Wall,” Sansa says. “You haven’t seen him?”

“Beyond the Wall?” Jon shakes his head. “What could possess him to do that?”

“The three eyed raven told him to go,” Rickon says.

Jon doesn’t look any more enlightened.  

“Perhaps we could get out of the cold,” Sansa suggests. 

“Of course,” Jon says. “Of course. Apologies. We can meet in my office. You -” he looks beyond her, a smile breaking out across his face. “You brought Shaggydog and Nymeria. And Lady?”

Sansa shakes her head. “She’s dead.”

“Father killed her,” Arya says and Sansa bites back a sigh. Her sister doesn’t understand when stories don’t need to be elaborated on. “Nymeria bit Joffrey and I got her to run away and Cersei got mad so she said Lady had to pay for it. But Joffrey’s dead now, and we found Nymeria.”

Which means in Arya’s mind, justice has been done.

“We heard about Joffrey here,” Jon says.

“He wasn’t a true King,” Stannis says. “He never should’ve sat on the throne.”

“Ah,” Tyrion says. “Those rumors reached you?”

“If Robert had a legitimate heir, I wouldn’t be fighting for the throne,” Stannis says.

“What rumors?” Arya asks. “What are you talking about?”

“Your Grace,” Ser Davos says. “This isn’t for children to hear.”

Stannis ignores the man and tells Arya. “Joffrey wasn’t a Baratheon. He’s a child of incest, born of Cersei and Jaime Lannister.”

Arya wrinkles her nose. “That’s gross. And I don’t believe you.”

“I heard it from your father.”

Sansa has heard quite enough of this. “Arya, quiet. Lord Stannis is a guest of the Night’s Watch, just as we are.”

“Ugh. Manners are boring.” She turns to Jon. “Can I go fight with the men? That’ll be more interesting than more meetings. And I’ve been practicing.” She pulls Needle out. “I’ve still got the sword you gave me. It got stolen when I was at Harrenhal, but I got it back. Killed the man who took it. Sword right through his throat.”

Jon looks mildly horrified.

“ _ You _ gave her that sword?” Sansa demands.

“Um,” Jon says.

“Thank you,” Sansa says. “From the stories I’ve heard, it’s saved her life many times.”

Arya beams. She turns to Ser Davos. “You’ve got a sword. Can I practice with you?”

“Are you going to put a sword through my throat?” Ser Davos asks, smiling. He probably thinks it’s funny.

Arya doesn’t, and gives the question careful consideration. “Are you going to hurt my sister?”

“Arya,” Sansa says. “We haven’t seen Jon in a long time. Come with us to talk to him and then we can see about finding you someone to practice with.”

“I don’t want to practice with anyone on the Night’s Watch,” Arya says. “I traveled with a bunch of them before Harrenhal. They’re bad men. They -” she looks over at Rickon and reconsiders what she’s going to say. “Bad men.”

“None of them will harm you while you’re here,” Jon promises.

“Duh,” Arya says. “I’ve got a sword.”

“Office,” Sansa says, a little desperate. “Please.”

“Of course,” Jon says. “If you’ll excuse me Lord Stannis, it has been too long since I saw my family, and I thought they were all dead.”

“I will see you at dinner,” Stannis says. “I hope your family will join us.”

Sansa imagines Arya at dinner with Stannis and prays fervently to the Seven that they do not all dine together.

Jon instructs someone named Sam to take their men and find a place for them to stay. Bronn and Ser Sandor are the only two to stay with them, but they are more protection than a dozen other men. Jon’s office isn’t large, but there’s a fire, and it’s warm.

“Apologies for not getting you an update,” Jon says as soon as the door is closed. “We were under siege from the wildlings, and I was sent to kill their leader and was facing certain death when Stannis’s army came through.”

“He thinks he’s the rightful King,” Tyrion says. “It makes having us here complicated.”

“I won’t allow blood to be shed here,” Jon says. “The Night’s Watch is removed from the politics of Westeros. As long as you’re both here, there will be no fighting between you. And,” Jon looks around to make sure they’re alone in the room, “his army is vast. You don’t want to start a fight with him.”

“Smaller now, after his failed siege of King’s Landing,” Tyrion says.

Sansa wonders if Stannis is aware that Tyrion personally led the city’s defense. Hopefully not. She’s pretty sure that Joffrey officially led the battle.

And anyway, they have more immediate concerns. “I have spent the past year bringing the North together under my rule,” Sansa says. “I will not let him take it away from me. Winterfell is going to be safe for my family. I have made it safe from the Boltons and the Greyjoys and the Karstarks, and I will not hesitate to do what needs to be done to keep it safe from Stannis Baratheon.”

Jon looks over at Tyrion.

“Your sister has risen to become the power in the North. If Stannis threatens what we’ve made, he’ll have a war on his hands.”

“He won’t ever make it to King’s Landing,” Sansa says. “Not if his aim is to kill the Queen Mother and King Briar. I’ve held that child in my arms. I won’t let anyone march through my territory who means him harm.”

Jon rubs his head. “Somehow my vow to remain free of politics has not left me free from politics. I suppose this means Stannis will stop trying to bargain with me. Or maybe he’ll only grow more insistent.”

“Bargain with you?” Tyrion asks.

“He has offered to make me an official Stark if I help him with his war,” Jon says.

Sansa’s heart clenches with fear.

“I gave up my ties to Winterfell when I said my vows,” Jon says, oblivious to Sansa’s worry. “He doesn’t see why I should honor my vows, but I was intending to do so before you came, and I’m even more resolved now. Winterfell is in good hands. It is my job to ensure the Wall is as well.”

“Have the wildlings told you what they’re running from?” Tyrion asks.

“I’ve seen what they’re running from,” Jon says. He drags a hand down his face, looking older and tireder than Sansa remembers. She’s not the only one who has faced trials in the past years. “I don’t blame them for running, but we must stop it.”

“The legends are real then?” Tyrion asks.

“The White Walkers are out there,” Jon says. “I’m hoping that Mance Rayder’s army will help us fight them, but Stannis wants them for his war on King’s Landing. He doesn’t realize that there’s a bigger war on our doorstep. One that if we lose means it won’t matter who sits on the Iron Throne.”

“Mance Rayder?” Tyrion asks.

“They call him the King Beyond the Wall. He’s currently a prisoner of the Night’s Watch.” Jon laughs. “Half the Watch doesn’t believe the White Walkers are real. More than half, probably. They think the wildings are superstitious, and they think -” he looks at Rickon, then Arya. “Nevermind what they think about me. They don’t believe.”

“Aren’t you the Lord Commander?” Arya asks. “That means they have to listen to you.”

“If only,” Jon says. “I know this isn’t the situation you were hoping for, but I’m glad you’re here. I need allies.”

“The entirety of the North is yours,” Sansa says. “You and I both know that winter is coming, and we’re here to help you stop it.”

“Thank you,” Jon says, so heartfelt Sansa’s afraid he might weep. 

“We’ll begin planning tomorrow,” Tyrion promises. “Are there any men here that you trust?”

“Some,” Jon says. “Not as many as I’d like.”

“Gather them all. And I want to see any maps you have. If I could find a way to defend King’s Landing from Stannis at the Battle of the Blackwater then I can find a way to defend the Wall from whatever marches on it.”

Sansa knows it will be more difficult than looking at some maps, but she trusts that with her family together, there is nothing they cannot defeat. She touches the pin that holds her cloak in place. Mother and Father would be proud of them right now. 

~*~

That night, Sansa puts Rickon and Arya to bed and makes sure the direwolves are in their room with them before going next door to where she and Tyrion will be sleeping. 

“I’m surprised they let you out of their sight,” Tyrion says.

“They have the wolves,” Sansa says. “They’ll be safe. And there were things we needed to speak of that I wanted us to be in private for.”

“Oh?”

Sansa changes into her her nightclothes and gets into their bed before she speaks. “I can make a  personal appeal to Jon, but I don’t have any real authority over the Night’s Watch, and neither do you. Are you really so certain Jon will listen to you?”

“We spoke often, the first time I was here. He had difficulty fitting in, and, well, I never fit in anywhere. I’m certain I made an impression, at least. And he’s smart enough to know he’s in over his head. I’d love to hear the story of how he came to be in command sometime.”

Knowing Jon, he accidentally tripped over it.

“There’s something else?” Tyrion asks, when the silence stretches.

“This is not the first time someone has questioned Joffrey and Tommen’s parentage.”

“Ah,” Tyrion says. “I was wondering when you would ask.”

Sansa raises her eyebrows. “I ask if there’s truth to the horrid rumors that your brother and sister were - having children together, and your response is you were wondering when I would ask?”

Tyrion hangs his dressing gown over the back of a chair and joins her in their bed. “The rumors have existed since Joffrey was born with blonde hair. You were innocent enough to disbelieve them in King’s Landing, and I didn’t want to take any more of your innocence than I already had.”

“But now you think I’m ready for the truth?” Sansa asks. Because it  _ is _ the truth. Tyrion isn’t denying that the three Baratheon children are truly Lannisters. He isn’t denying that his siblings must have - Sansa can’t even think of it.

“Yes,” Tyrion answers simply. “Am I wrong?”

“I find the thought of what they did distasteful,” Sansa says, “but if you’re asking will I put my support behind Stannis, then the answer is of course not.”

“I didn’t think you would do something so extreme,” Tyrion says. “Joffrey is dead and people are too busy rejoicing that their Queen cares about them to look into who Joffrey’s father was. I was more wondering how you would react to Tommen. He is betrothed to your sister.”

“He is,” Sansa says. She remembers the letter from Lord Tywin announcing that Tommen would come to them, how eager the Hand of the King was to see his grandson gone from King’s Landing. “Lord Tywin found out. That’s why he sent Tommen to us, isn’t it?”

Tyrion nods. “I believe so. Obviously he wouldn’t confirm anything in writing, but something prompted him to send Tommen to us, and I can’t think of what else it would be.”

“Does Tommen know?”

“I think Myrcella suspected something, but Tommen…” He shrugs.

Sansa has to agree. Tommen is so… Tommen. He doesn’t know.

Tyrion shakes his head. “And I would like to keep it that way. The poor boy has been through enough.”

“He won’t hear of it from me,” Sansa says.

Tyrion looks at her with mild surprise. “You are taking this better than I thought you would.”

“Tommen’s birth isn’t his fault,” Sansa says. “I don’t approve of what your brother and sister did, but it’s done. And look at my own situation; I was in disgrace because of my parentage, but you married me anyway, and now I have Winterfell again, and Arya and Rickon. I won’t deny Tommen the same salvation. I don’t want to imagine what Lord Tywin would do to the boy if his marriage to Arya fell through.”

“Neither do I,” Tyrion agrees. “I suppose I should write Jaime and make sure he hasn’t been assassinated in the night. I can’t imagine my father appreciating what his children got up to behind his back. Or the threat to his legacy.” Tyrion tucks his hands behind his head. “I wonder if that finally makes me the least hated of his children.”

“King’s Landing is far from here,” Sansa says. “Why care about what your father thinks?  _ I  _ love you.”

The declaration has Tyrion sitting up straight in their bed. “You do?”

Sansa wants to pull their blankets up, suddenly shy, even though she’s fully clothed. “I do.”

“I hadn’t thought you’d ever - I mean, I also -”

She puts a finger to her husband’s lips. “Don’t lie to me,” she says. “If you’re not ready, if you don’t feel it - I hadn’t thought I would ever love you. I hoped but I wasn’t sure it would come.”

“You continue to amaze me,” Tyrion tells her. “I hope it never stops.”

She smiles and leans in to press a kiss against his lips. 

She leaves it at that, because they’re going to need a good night’s sleep if they’re going to be ready to face the challenges Stannis’s presence brings. She turns on her side, and Tyrion surprises her by reaching out to grasp her hand. 

“Good night, Sansa.”

“Good night, husband.”


	2. Chapter 2

After they break their fast in their rooms, wanting to keep their interactions with Stannis to a minimum, Sansa, Tyrion, Arya, and Rickon return to the Lord Commander’s office. There are more people in there now besides Jon, four men Sansa doesn’t recognize, and also a young woman holding a baby.

Sansa didn’t think men of the Night’s Watch were allowed to father children, but she keeps her mouth shut. They are guests here after all.

“Sam?” Rickon asks, and Sansa looks at her brother in surprise. “Sam!”

Rickon rushes forward to hug the largest of the men in the room around his knees.

This Sam is rounder than Sansa would expect for a soldier, and his smile is much more boyish than living in this harsh place warrants.

“Look at you,” Sam says, ruffling Rickon’s hair. “Glad to see you made it back to your family.”

“You know my brother?” Sansa asks.

Sam stops awkwardly patting Rickon’s head and tries to stand as tall as he can. “Uh, yes, my lady. I ran into both your brothers while returning from Beyond the Wall. The older one, he was quite insistent that he leave. Uh -” Sam’s eyes flick over to Jon.

“He’s on a mission,” Sansa says, putting Sam out of his misery. “While I wonder how you couldn’t keep a boy who can’t walk from running away, I am also aware that stubbornness runs in my family.” She looks pointedly at Arya. “I simply thank the Seven that Rickon returned to us and continue to pray that Bran will, too.”

“Right,” Sam says. He nods. “I’ll do the same.”

If these are Jon’s allies then Sansa fears that the Wall stands no chance of turning back the wildlings.

“We should talk before someone comes looking for us,” Sansa says. “And I don’t want Arya and Rickon here for this.”

“What?” Arya demands. “I’ve got a sword. I can fight!”

Sansa ignores her sister in favor of continuing to look straight at Jon. “Where will they be safest?”

“I can take them, my lady,” the girl standing beside Sam says. She looks a little startled when Sansa turns to her, like she hadn’t quite wanted the attention. “I spend most my time in the library. The princess is teaching me how to read. No one bothers us down there.”

“Shireen won’t harm anyone,” Jon promises. “And Maester Aemon should be in the library at this time. Arya and Rickon will be safe there.”

“Take Shaggydog,” Sansa tells her younger brother. “Stay in the library and mind Maester Aemon and -” she looks over at the girl.

“Gilly, my lady.”

“And Gilly,” Sansa finishes. 

“I can help you with the baby,” Rickon says, already drifting to Gilly’s side. “We have two at home. A boy and a girl. What kind of baby do you have?”

“He’s a boy,” Gilly says. “His name is Sam.”

They head towards the door, and Sansa gives Arya a nudge. She gets a glare for it, and Arya stomps the whole way to the door, but she goes. Sansa doesn’t allow herself to breathe a sigh of relief until the door has shut behind them.

“She hasn’t gotten any less spirited,” Jon comments.

“She disappeared after Father was beheaded,” Sansa says. “She was smart enough not to get caught by an entire capital searching for her, got kidnapped on her way to the Wall, was imprisoned at Harrenhal, escaped Harrenhal to be kidnapped by another group, escaped them only to be kidnapped yet again by the Hound, and he returned her to us after they arrived at Moat Cailin in time to witness the aftermath of the Red Wedding. I thank the Seven every night that none of that managed to break her spirit.”

Jon nods and fiddles with some papers on his desk. “Right. Well, this here is Samwell Tarly. Next to him is Pyp - Pyper, Gren, and Edd - Eddison. They’re a good group.”

“Small,” Tyrion comments. His eyes drag over each man, critical. He lingers on Eddison. “You look like you can fight, though.”

“Been here since I was 15. You learn a few things after you’ve been here more than a decade.”

Tyrion nods. 

“I told you, there are few people I can trust,” Jon says.

“You’re never going to win a war Beyond the Wall if you’re constantly fighting one on it,” Tyrion says. “You need your men to support you and to do that, you’re going to need most of them to trust you.”

“That’ll never happen,” Pyp says. He ducks his head when everyone looks at him. “Apologies.”

“No,” Jon says with a sigh. “You’re just telling the truth. Ser Alliser has hated me from the moment I arrived, and nothing will change that.”

“There will be people like that,” Tyrion says, “They’re easy to deal with. What about the others? Your brothers? Not the men in charge.”

“I spent quite a bit of time Beyond the Wall,” Jon says. “I was a prisoner of the wildlings, pretended I was turning on the Night’s Watch, but I was really gaining information on them. Most of my brothers think I’ve become a wildling.”

“It doesn’t help that you want to negotiate with them,” Grenn says.

“We have maybe a hundred men,” Jon says. “They have the numbers to turn back the White Walkers, and more importantly they actually believe that the White Walkers are out there. We need them. The men of the Night’s Watch are just too proud to admit it.”

“Men and their pride,” Sansa says. 

“They took vows forgoing titles, land, marriage, everything that makes them men when they joined,” Tyrion says. “Pride is all they have left.”

“That’s what the Greyjoys thought,” Sansa says, “and I ripped that from their hands.”

“Fear is good,” Tyrion says, “but respect is better. How can we get the men of the Night’s Watch on Jon’s side?”

“He saved us during the assault,” Sam says. “Without him we’d all be dead. Everyone knows that. They just don’t want to admit it.”

“We’ll make them admit it,” Tyrion says.

“I got enough votes to be Lord Commander,” Jon points out. “I’m not completely hated.”

“Maester Aemon broke the tie,” Sam says. “But all the other men who came here from power and titles, those are the ones who don’t like him. Led by Ser Alliser.”

“Then we deal with him first,” Tyrion says. “There has to be other castles along this wall. Which one is in need of an experienced commander and is far far away from Castle Black?”

“Lord Stannis recommended I send him away, too,” Jon says. “But I think I want him close.”

“Stannis isn’t an idiot,” Tyrion says, “He was in line for the throne before his brother produced an heir. He knows how to lead. Yes, there are some enemies you want close, but not this one. He’ll continue to work to undermine you until your dead body is discovered in the snow. Send him away.”

Everyone in the room stares at Tyrion.

“I  _ was  _ Hand of the King,” Tyrion points out. “A damn good one if I might add. I know what I’m talking about.”

“He does,” Sansa agrees. “He acquitted himself well in the Battle of the Blackwater and his assistance at Winterfell has been invaluable. You can trust his judgment.”

Tyrion looks surprised, but touched, by her ready defense.

“Fine,” Jon says. “We send Ser Alliser away. That still doesn’t put everyone on my side, and as soon as I start talking about the wildlings again they’ll find someone else to follow. I can’t send everyone away.”

“Which is why you’re not going to talk about the wildlings,” Tyrion says. “I am. I don’t care if these men hate me. As soon as this business is done, I’m returning to Winterfell and none of them can follow. We’ll address them at the midday meal. Next.”

“Even with the wildings, I don’t know how we’ll win,” Sam says. “The wights we can kill with fire, but the White Walkers...” he shudders. “I’ve been doing some reading.” The other men groan. “They can only be killed with dragonglass and Valyrian steel. We don’t have very much of either and without it, any army we send against them will just become fodder for theirs.”

“Dragonglass we can get,” Tyrion says. “I’ll write to my father, tell him to send as many men as he can spare and more to the Dragonstone to collect it. He doesn’t believe in the Winter, but I can make it sound like a lucrative trade opportunity. He’ll like that. The Crown is drowning in debt.” He pauses. “There’s not much I can do about the Valyrian steel, though.”

“I’ve got Longclaw,” Jon says patting his sword. “I don’t think there’s any other Valyrian steel to be found here.”

“Then you better start training in bows and spears,” Tyrion says. “We’ve got the Wall so we’ll use it. When the White Walkers come, arrows tipped with dragonglass will rain down on them from above while men with long spears similarly modified will hold them off from below.”

“We’ll need fire,” Jon adds. “A lot of it. It’s how you keep the dead from becoming wights. We’ll have to devise some sort of retreat call. Periodically pull back so we can burn the dead.”

“We’ll be burning the wounded, too,” Sam says, eyes wide, a little horrified.

“Wounded become dead,” Jon says, “and dead become wights.”

The room is silent as everyone processes this.

“So dragonglass and wildfire,” Tyrion says. “We used most of it at Blackwater Bay, but I’ll send for some alchemists.” He looks thoughtful. “I almost wish we had the Targaryen girl and her dragons. They could probably set fire to the entire land and be done with it.”

“And then she would claim the Iron Throne as hers,” Sansa says, “and we’d find ourselves in  _ another _ war.”

“But a war of Queens, not Kings,” Tyrion says. “Might be more interesting.”

“Too much death,” Sansa says. “Is there anything else you need, brother?”

“Men that have been trained to fight?” Jon asks. He laughs. “Half the men at the wall have no training, the other half have no heart. And the wildlings are unpredictable. They’re just as likely to kill us as the White Walkers. Or each other.”

“I think they’re smart enough to kill the White Walkers first,” Tyrion says.

Jon glares. “Not helpful.”

“I’m here to tell the truth,” Tyrion says. “It’s the thing I’m best at, if you recall.”

Jon inclines his head. 

“One other thing,” Eddison says, raising his hand. “Not that I don’t appreciate your help, but Lord Stannis has an army. An army he’s going to leave with if we ally ourselves with people who don’t recognize him as King. You’ve heard him talking about making the wildlings kneel for him. He won’t like us working with - what does he call them - friends of the usurper? And we may need his army.”

“It’s a fair point,” Tyrion says, before Sansa or Jon can protest. “Stannis does have a large army, but he doesn’t have Valyrian steel or dragonglass, which means his army is useless against the White Walkers. Additionally, Stannis wants the throne. After he fights a long and bloody war,  _ if _ he wins and gets the throne, he  _ might _ help you. And that’s assuming winter hasn’t already swept over your wall by then. Our numbers are small, but we have resources, and our priority is putting a halt to winter. Can you say the same of Stannis?”

“No,” Eddison says. “We can’t.”

“There we go then,” Tyrion says. “We need you and you need us. The best kind of alliance, actually. Mutual need ensures that neither side will betray the other.”

“The men aren’t going to respect you,” Grenn says. “You’re not a fighter. You’re…”

“A dwarf,” Tyrion says. “You can say it, it’s not like I’m trying to hide the fact. And I don’t need the men to respect my ability to fight, I need them to respect my mind. Of course, my greatest military achievement was defeating Stannis. In poor taste to bring up in his company?”

“I’d rather you not die,” Sansa says.

Tyrion chuckles. “My dear, I have lived this long while insulting the most powerful men in Westeros. Stannis won’t be the death of me.”

“If he is,” Sansa says, “I will let the White Walkers raise your body so I can kill you myself.”

“Ah, love,” Tyrion says, flip, but with genuine feeling in his eyes. He turns to the men before him. “Are you regretting your vows yet?”

Eddison chuckles. “Plenty of women have threatened to kill me without me having the honor of being married to them.”

“Sure it wasn’t their fathers doing the threatening because you wouldn’t marry them?” Grenn asks.

They all laugh. 

Their mirth is interrupted by a knock at the door and then a little boy pokes his head in.

“Yes, Olly?” Jon asks.

The boy looks around the room, curious, before he says, “Lunch is almost prepared, Lord Commander. Will your guests be sitting at the high table with you?”

“They will,” Jon says. “Four of them.”

“Should I put them next to King Stannis?”

“No,” Jon says. “And it’s Lord Stannis. No one’s put a crown on his head yet.”

Olly bobs his head and mumbles an affirmative.

He slips out, and Jon’s smile fades into something troubled.

“Impressionable thing,” Tyrion says. “Stannis will be glad to get a new recruit for his army.”

“Olly’s family was slaughtered by wildlings in front of him,” Jon says. “He came here to warn us and I made him my steward. He’s thought of nothing but revenge since that day, but… he’ll come around.”

“You’re an idiot,” Tyrion says, and there are a few muffled laughs that Jon silences with a look. “You, the one accused of being a wildling lover and who is trying to argue for the integration of the wildlings, have accepted a boy who I’m sure has sworn revenge on every wildling that breathes as your personal steward? It’s a wonder you’re still alive.”

“You’re sending him away too?” Jon guesses.

“Revenge is consuming,” Sansa says. “Our sister keeps a murder list. Every night before she goes to bed she recites the name of every man and woman who has done her wrong, and I fully believe she intends to kill them all or, at the very least, live until they’ve died. Who are we to assume that this Olly is less dedicated?”

“I’ll explain everything to him,” Jon says. “I’ll show him that all wildlings aren’t bad.”

Sansa laughs. “I wish you had been there when I had to explain to Arya why she couldn’t kill the Hound.”

“Sandor Clegane’s on her list?” Jon asks.

“He tracked down a friend of hers and killed him at Prince Joffrey’s order,” Sansa says. “In her mind, that means Ser Sandor has to die. This despite saving her life multiple times and returning her to me. She didn’t listen to my argument that Ser Sandor saved my life as well, and didn’t care for the idea that a person isn’t completely good or completely evil.”

“Clegane and Arya both still live,” Jon says. “So you must have convinced her somehow.”

Sansa looks over at Tyrion. “My husband convinced Arya that since Ser Sandor has so many years on her, perhaps she could just sit back and wait for nature to take its course. The desire for revenge doesn’t fade, it simmers, waiting until it can flare up again. If you believe that we need the wildlings to stop the winter, then Olly is a danger.”

Jon shakes his head. “When did you begin thinking like this? I understand Lord Tyrion, but you were always my sweet sister.”

Sansa’s expression hardens. “Arya wasn’t the only one to have a difficult time after Father’s death.”

“Right,” Jon says. He fiddles with the hilt of his sword. “I suppose it’s time to go eat then.”

“Finally,” Sam says, and weak laughter drifts through the group.

~*~

Lunch starts tense and doesn’t get better.

Stannis and his wife are already seated at the table when Sansa arrives with Tyrion. Sansa looks at the floor before them where the men of the Night’s Watch are all crowded around tables. They quiet when Sansa enters, or maybe it’s Tyrion they’re staring at, but either way they go quiet.

“Where are Arya and Rickon?” Sansa asks.

A door on the other side of the room opens and the Maester enters with Gilly, Arya, Rickon, and a young girl with something on her face.

“Grayscale,” Tyrion murmurs. “It’s contained. That’s Shireen Baratheon, Stannis’s daughter.”

Sansa nods.

She doesn’t expect the way Arya grabs Shireen’s hand and practically drags her to Sansa’s side of the table.

“This is Shireen,” Arya says. “She knows all about the dragons. We’re friends now.”

She says it with her chin jutted out, a challenge, like she expects and maybe even wants Sansa to argue with her.

“She tells good stories,” Rickon says. There’s a faint flush on his cheeks when he says it.

Sansa shares a look with Tyrion before saying, “Good storytellers are hard to find.” She curtseys. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Lady Shireen.”

Shireen smiles and curtseys back, charmingly unpracticed. “You as well, Lady Sansa.”

“Ugh,” Arya says. Then, “Can she sit with us?”

“It’s fine with me,” Sansa asks, “but you should - politely - ask her father.”

Arya turns to Stannis, her posture as confrontational as it was with Sansa. “Can we keep talking about dragons?”

Stannis waves his hand. “By all means.”

Arya grins and sits Shireen between her and Rickon and immediately starts talking about the Targaryens. Sansa leaves them to it and concentrates on eating while tension makes her stomach knot up with unease.

She’s comforted having Tyrion at her side, and by looking out at the crowds of men and seeing Bronn and Ser Sandor among the men of the Night’s Watch. Still, she is eager to resolve what they can and return home. 

Most of the men are nearly done eating when Tyrion stands up. They continue eating, paying him no mind, and he clears his throat.

Sansa doesn’t know what her husband is doing, but she doesn’t like the way everyone’s eyes drift up towards him, the way cruel smiles tug at their lips.

“Sit down, dwarf!” one of them calls.

Sansa has gotten out of practice with ignoring this sort of blatant disrespect. Winterfell is making her soft.

Tyrion doesn’t get angry, though. And he doesn’t sit down. He just says, “But if I sat, how would you be able to see me?”

The men laugh at that, hostility fading, and Sansa marvels at Tyrion’s ability to gain the respect of men who don’t like him by calling attention to his own shortcomings.

“I’ve been to the Wall once before,” Tyrion says, “and I don’t have any of your vast expertise, but I have now heard troubling accounts both times I’ve been to the Wall, and it makes me wonder if there is truth to these accounts.”

No one speaks, but he has their attention.

“Do the undead really march on the Wall?”

Several of the men scoff but only one speaks up, a man with a hardened face and nicer cloak than the rest. “You’ve been listening to too many of Jon’s stories.”

“Ah,” Tyrion says. He looks over at Jon. “It is true that he’s given me a report, but I do believe in gaining multiple perspectives. What’s your name?”

“Ser Alliser Thorne,” the man says. “The boy’s spent too much time with the wildlings. They’re a superstitious lot.”

There are a couple murmurs of agreement.

“I take it you’re not a superstitious lot, then,” Tyrion says. He walks around to the front of the table. “Which begs the question: if there’s nothing to be afraid of, then why do you burn your dead?”

The hall goes eerily silent.

“They come back if you don’t,” one of the men finally says.

“Lies!”

“Runaway imagination.”

“I saw it!”

“You did too!”

“Enough,” Tyrion says, cutting through their squabbling. “It’s a simple question. If there is no truth to the stories then why do you burn your dead?”

“They’re called wights,” the Maester says, and Tyrion turns respectfully to face him. “When the dead rise, they rise as wights. Fire is the best way to defeat them.”

“Thank you, Maester,” Tyrion says. He looks over at Ser Alliser. “Do you doubt the Maester’s wisdom as easily as you doubt your Lord Commander?”

Ser Alliser sneers.

“Another question,” Tyrion says. “How do wights come about? Maester?”

It’s Samwell who answers. “The books all say they’re made by White Walkers.”

“Another tale,” someone says.

“I’ve seen one,” Sam says earnestly, entreating Tyrion to believe him. “I killed it.”

Laughter ripples through the room, and Sam hangs his head.

“You’re not a soldier, are you?” Tyrion asks.

Sam shakes his head, shoulders dropping even more.

“In fact, I would wager you’re one of the worst fighters here.”

Sansa wants to scold her husband for hurting this boy’s feelings. She doesn’t, though, because while Winterfell is her arena, this is Tyrion’s, and she has to trust him to navigate it true.

“I am,” Sam says.

“So why then would you concoct such an outrageous lie?” Tyrion asks. “You would have better luck convincing your brothers you took down a wildling than a White Walker.”

“What is your point?” Ser Alliser asks.

“My point,” Tyrion says, “is that the boy had no reason to lie; therefore, he told the truth. He encountered a White Walker, he killed it, and when he tried to warn you of the dangers beyond the Wall you called him a coward and liar.” Tyrion turns to Sam. “Does that sum it up nicely?”

Sam shrugs.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Tyrion says.

“That is your proof for the existence of White Walkers? A boy whose father couldn’t wait to get rid of him by sending him to the Wall?”

“Every good argument has multiple proofs,” Tyrion says. “But thank you for showing interest in my point. You recently had quite a large wildling army march on the Wall, did you not?”

“We did,” Ser Alliser says, “and thanks to the timely arrival of King Stannis, that army is now our prisoners.”

“Yes, yes,” Tyrion says. “What a brave, strong leader, riding in on horseback to cut down a starving, desperate horde. How often do the wildlings attack the wall?”

“Often.”

“And with numbers like this?” Tyrion asks.

“Less often.”

Tyrion grins. “Yes. And how often have they unified so fully behind one man? How often do the freefolk pledge themselves to a king, even if it is a King Beyond the Wall?”

Ser Alliser’s teeth grind together before he says, “This is the first.”

“And it must be a coincidence,” Tyrion says, “that the wildlings seek shelter behind the wall at the same time there are rumors of wights and White Walkers. It couldn’t be that there’s something out there they’re afraid of, so afraid that they’d throw their bodies against the wall to more than likely die in a desperate attempt to escape what’s coming.”

“Wildlings and cowards,” Ser Alliser says. “That’s your argument.”

Sansa can see that Ser Alliser will never be persuaded, but there are other men in the hall who look uneasy, men who don’t look so certain that White Walkers are only stories. 

“No, we haven’t even gotten to my argument,” Tyrion says. “We’re simply establishing the facts. And those are that the men of the Night’s Watch have all taken a vow to defend this wall and even as you sit in your seats, eating your food, crowing about your victory over the wildlings, something much worse marches towards you.”

“My argument,” Tyrion says into the quiet of the hall, “is that there are not enough men on this Wall to defend it from what comes. You’re going to need numbers. And there happens to be quite a large population of semi-trained warriors who have a vested interest in fighting what comes our way.”

“You’re as bad as the bastard,” Ser Alliser says, face twisting in disgust. “You want us to throw our lot in with the wildlings? They would’ve killed us if it weren’t for King Stannis.”

Stannis, sitting tall and proud in his seat, preens. 

“They want to be safe,” Tyrion says. “You were standing between them and safety so they tried the impossible, to breach your Wall. And almost succeeded, I might add. They’ll make for good allies against the White Walkers.”

“They’ll stab us in the back the first chance they get.”

“Doubtful.”

“They’re take our land, take our women, and kill our boys.”

“Again,” Tyrion says, “Doubtful. They’ve been perfectly content to live beyond the Wall until that living was threatened. Once the threat is eliminated they can return to their homes you can both go back to hating each other. Everyone will be happy. And most everyone will be alive.”

“Winter is coming,” Sansa says, “and you’re not equipped to deal with it on your own.”

“I’ve spent my whole life fighting wildlings,” Ser Alliser says, “I’m not going to climb into bed with them.”

It’s too pointed to be a general insult, and Sansa can feel Jon slouch in his seat, which means it’s directed at him.

“Like they’d want you anyway,” Arya says. “You’re old. And mean.”

A couple men laugh, but are quickly silenced by Ser Alliser’s glare.

“Before you say what’s on your mind,” Sansa says, cutting Ser Alliser off before he can speak, “I will remind you that my sister is a young girl, and your language must be appropriate.”

“Also,” Tyrion says. “You haven’t spent your whole life fighting wildlings. I believe the beginning of it you spent fighting for the Mad King. Tell me, Ser Alliser, how did you justify fighting for a king who burned children in their beds? Did you tell yourself they were just stories told by cowards?”

Ser Alliser leaps to his feet, hand reaching towards his sword. “How  _ dare _ you.”

“Enough,” Stannis says. “As entertaining as this has been, it’s also been pointless. The wildlings are going to march South with me.”

“Away from the battle?” Tyrion asks. “Interesting.”

“King’s Landing is the priority,” Stannis says. “Once the throne is mine, if you swear your allegiance to me, I will send an army to save the North.”

“You’ll take an army South then force it North again? Seems inefficient.”

“Do not mock me, dwarf,” Stannis warns.

“Even if you made it to King’s Landing, the city won’t give up without a fight,” Tyrion says. “There are Lannister armies between here and King’s Landing, and the city will be well fortified by the time you reach it. The Wall will be overrun before you can sit on your throne and once winter begins to spread, you won’t be able to stop it.”

“I have the Lord of Light on my side,” Stannis says. “He will put me on the throne, and he will bring winter to an end.”

Tyrion turns to Ser Alliser. “You would rather trust a foreign religion than a flesh and blood army? I thought you said you didn’t believe in stories.”

Sansa fears her husband is going to goad Ser Alliser into trying to kill him. 

“I have a red priestess with me,” Stannis says. “She has seen my victory in the fire. I  _ will _ sit on the Iron Throne.”

“Ah,” Tyrion says. “Having a red priestess changes everything. If you have her magic, why do you need the wildlings? Leave them for us. Let us defend the Wall so your kingdom isn’t destroyed before you have a chance to rule it.”

Ser Alliser points a finger at Jon. “This is your fault. Savages and Lannisters, that’s who you call friend and brother? You’re a wildling lover and unfit for command.”

“But he is Lord Commander,” Maester Aemon says, “As voted by our brotherhood.”

“As voted by  _ you _ ,” Ser Alliser says.

“I will offer the wildlings the same promise I offer the men of the Night’s Watch,” Stannis says, taking control of the room again. “Anyone who bends their knee to me and joins my army will receive a full pardon upon my coronation.”

Sansa’s eyes seek out her husband’s, but Tyrion doesn’t seem either surprised or concerned by this announcement. 

Unsurprisingly, Ser Alliser is the first to get on one knee.

Perhaps more surprisingly, the entire room doesn’t follow suit.

~*~

“What the hell was that?” Eddison demands as soon as they’re back in Jon’s office, having reconvened their War Council following lunch. “We just lost our best fighters and best commanders.”

“We’ve weeded out those who aren’t loyal to Jon,” Tyrion says. “It’s one of the better outcomes, actually. Stannis will take away those who’ll fight what needs to be done, and they’ll get killed somewhere between here and King’s Landing.”

“He’s got an army,” Pyp says. “What if he does take King’s Landing? We could be free if we went with him.”

“You took a vow,” Jon reminds him. “And his army won’t be as big as he thinks. The freefolk won’t bend the knee to him.” He looks at Tyrion. “They won’t bend the knee to me either if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“It wasn’t. I was serious about an alliance formed out of mutual desire to live. They help us turn back the White Walkers and the land beyond the Wall is theirs to do with as they please.”

“What if everyone leaves?” Jon asks. 

“They won’t,” Tyrion says. “There are some who would follow you anywhere, some who believe in the vows they took, and some who simply don’t like Stannis’s odds. Red priestess or not, his army has a long way to travel before he gets what he wants. A lot of things can happen.”

The red priestess must be Melisandre. Sansa doesn’t know if she should tell them what she knows, that red priestesses do have magic. She doesn’t know what help it would be; it would probably only turn more men away from them, and they need as many bodies as they can keep.

“She’s a fine looking woman,” Grenn says.

Pyp elbows him.

“What?” Grenn says. “It’s true. I even heard Stannis is -” his gaze cuts to Sansa - “you know, with her. His wife doesn’t even care.”

“We’re not here to gossip,” Sansa says. “Jon, you need to talk to this king of the wildlings. When Stannis leaves, we need the wildlings to stay. They’re our best hope.”

“We are so screwed,” Pyp says.


	3. Chapter 3

Arya is missing. 

Sansa tries to fight down her panic, because that won’t help her, but they’re at Castle Black and  _ Arya is missing _ . She could’ve been snatched by one of Stannis’s men or one of the wildling prisoners or even one of the Night’s Watchmen themselves. 

“Nymeria!” Sansa calls, and the men practicing in the yard spring aside as Nymeria runs right through them before stopping at Sansa’s side. Sansa kneels down next to Arya’s wolf. “We need to find Arya,” she says. She doesn’t want to raise the alarm, doesn’t want to admit that she’s lost her sister, but if a quick search with Nymeria doesn’t find her then she will turn this castle inside out until she does.

Nymeria tilts her head up and sniffs the air before catching Sansa’s sleeve between her teeth and gently tugging.

Sansa gets to her feet and follows Nymeria through the courtyard, into the castle and deeper into its depths. She’s led to what looks like a storage room. The door is cracked open, and Sansa peers through it to see her sister, arms crossed over her chest, talking to a man in chains.

What in the Seven Hells, Sansa thinks, pushing the door all the way open, Nymeria preceding her into the room.

Arya looks as annoyed to see Sansa here as Sansa is to see Arya. 

Sansa takes a childish pleasure in that.

“You cannot disappear like this,” Sansa says.

“You found me.”

“And if someone else had found you?” Sansa demands. “What part of ‘we are not safe here’ do you not understand?”

Arya pats her sword. “I’m plenty safe.”

The man in chains, a tired looking man with a long face and grim set to his mouth, laughs. His chains rattle as his body shakes with mirth. “I can definitely see the resemblance now. You’re Jon’s sister alright.”

Sansa has the sense that the man doesn’t mean it as a compliment.

“And you are?” she asks the man.

He holds up his manacled wrists. “This doesn’t give it away? Mance Rayder.”

Sansa doesn’t think a chained man is going to be any danger to her sister, and if what Jon says is true, then Mance Rayder is a potential ally. Of course, Jon thinks that enemies should be kept as close as allies, so she’s not entirely sure she can trust his judgment. 

Nymeria noses at the man’s furs and then backs off, and Sansa does trust her judgment.

“You’re hurt, Ser Mance,” Sansa says, seeing the way he favors his right arm, the cut in his sleeve and the bit of red that stains the fabric. 

“Just Mance,” the man says. “And it’s not bad.”

“So I can’t talk to him but you can be nice to him?” Arya demands.

“You can’t  go running off without telling me or Tyrion where you’re going,” Sansa says. “I’m treating the injuries of a prisoner. There’s a difference.”

“You would’ve tried to stop me,” Arya says. “I bet this kind of thing won’t happen when I’m married.”

“Married women do have more freedom in their movement,” Sansa says. “Another point in favor of your marriage. Though, I hope you and Tommen won’t need to keep a multitude of prisoners when you’re married. I want peace for Westeros.”

She looks around the room until she finds a cloth and what she hopes is clean water. She kneels beside the prisoner. “Are they feeding you well?” she asks.

“I’m not a noble prisoner,” Mance says. He hisses when she dabs at his wound with the damp cloth. “And this isn’t necessary. I know I’m going to die.”

It doesn’t matter if his execution is in an hour; Sansa was taught how to treat prisoners and that meant compassion and respect. Prisoners are to have their wounds tended, are to be fed, given water. She remembers asking her father once why they did that, wasted resources on someone who was going to die.

He’d knelt down next to her, hand heavy on her shoulder as he said, “Kindness and mercy are never a waste.”

“Your fate hasn’t been decided,” Sansa tells him. She is learning the kind of man Stannis is, and if he had decided Mance was going to die the man would already be dead. No wasted time.

Mance laughs. “Oh, it was decided a long, long time ago. My life will be spared if I bend the knee to this Stannis, and I won’t.”

“He’s not my king either,” Sansa says. She’s gentle as she tries to get the dirt out of his wound, but he still hisses out a breath. “I already have one.”

Mance shakes his head. “That’s what you southerners don’t understand. I don’t want any king. Where do kings get you? Armies fighting, the common people dying, all because someone put a crown on a baby and someone else doesn’t like it.”

“You’re a king,” Arya says, judgment heavy in her voice. “King Beyond the Wall.”

“I didn’t choose to be king,” Mance says, defeat heavy in his voice.

Sansa feels a sharp pang, for another man forced into the same unwelcome position.

“Stannis can’t cut down my whole army,” Mance says. “Oh, he can kill me, and the army will fall apart, he’s right about that. There’s nothing holding them together without me. But they’re desperate, angry; they know what waits for them if they go back over the Wall. Stannis might kill hundreds, but he’ll lose hundreds more. My people will never surrender.”

He looks down at the manacles on his wrists.

“I wanted to protect my people,” Mance says, “and we’re stronger together than we are apart. As I brought more and more people together, they gave me that name. The King Beyond the Wall. If it got them together, if that name was enough for them to fight for, then what choice did I have but to bear it?”

He really is just like Robb, who never wanted to be king, just wanted to rescue his sisters. Being named got Robb killed. Sansa couldn’t do anything to save him, but maybe there’s something she can do for Mance.

“I’m going to get you a proper meal,” she tells him. She’s going to find a way to save him without him having to bend the knee. And not just because she doesn’t want Stannis to have the entire wildling army at his disposal.

“Don’t waste it on me,” he says.

“Arya, take Nymeria and step outside the room,” Sansa commands.

“But -”

“ _ Go _ .”

Arya mutters something about stupid sisters but does as she’s told.

Sansa’s sure she’s standing just outside the room, eavesdropping, so lowers her voice.

“I am going to do everything in my power to get you out of these chains,” Sansa tells him. “I know what it’s like to be a prisoner, and I know what it’s like to want nothing but to be home protecting what’s yours. If I’m unable to rescue you, I promise that I will protect your people. We’re going to turn back winter, and your people will have their homeland back.”

Mance doesn’t laugh at her this time. He raises his bound hands so he can lay both hands on her arms, clearly a gesture that has meaning to him even if she doesn’t recognize it. “You are Jon Snow’s sister as well,” he says, and this time it does sound like a compliment.

~*~

Sansa brings Arya back to the their part of Castle Black herself, not trusting her sister to return to their quarters without getting distracted. When Arya disappears at Winterfell it’s a mild inconvenience, but Sansa knows it’s only a matter of time before she reappears with a giant smile and a cat wriggling in her arms or raven feathers stuck in her hair or  _ something _ .

Losing her at Castle Black is something else entirely. She wishes she could get it through Arya’s thick skull that Sansa isn’t trying to ruin her fun but keep her safe.

They’re in the courtyard when they meet up with Sansa’s husband. He looks at Sansa’s face then the tight grip Sansa has on Arya’s shoulder and he raises his eyebrows.

“Later,” Sansa says.

“You!” Arya exclaims, and she twists out of Sansa’s hold and takes off across the courtyard. What now?

Sansa’s halfway across the yard in pursuit when she sees who Arya’s running down.

Melisandre.

The woman is wearing the same cloak she was the last time Sansa saw her, but she looks different here. A smirk lurks at the corners of her lips, in the depths of her eyes. She looks confident, not like the desperate woman searching for answers in the snow.

Sansa isn’t the desperate  girl she was either, last time they met.

“You know this woman?” Sansa asks.

How had Arya met Stannis’s red priestess?

Arya’s reaching for her sword and a crowd is gathering, mostly Stannis’s men. Sansa reaches her sister and pulls her back, because drawing a sword on Stannis’s priestess is a good way to get them all killed.

There’s a flash of discomfort in Melisandre’s eyes before she’s smiling again, this smile edged with something condescending, a woman about to talk down to a girl. Sansa experienced it enough with Cersei to recognize it now.

“She took my friend,” Arya says. “She took Gendry. Where is he? What did you do to him?”

“Your friend escaped,” Melisandre says. “Before the siege of King’s Landing, he fled like a coward in the night, stealing a boat and supplies not his to take. I suppose he returned to the capital and his business.”

“Liar!” Arya shouts, and it takes all Sansa’s strength to hold her sister back.

This is playing out like the butcher’s boy all over again.

“Who is Gendry?” Tyrion asks. 

“He was my friend,” Arya says. “He was with me when we were being taken to the Wall. Lannister men came after him.” She glares at Tyrion like this was his fault. “It’s how we got taken to Harrenhal. I thought they were after me, but they wanted him. He was just an armorer. And then we escaped and  _ she _ took him.”

Arya seems to remember who she’s truly angry with and starts struggling again.

“She paid the bandits for him. And now he’s gone! What did you do to him?”

“His fate is in the hands of the Lord of Light,” Melisandre says. “There is nothing to fear for your friend.”

Sansa remembers Theon, remembers Melisandre saying all magic requires sacrifice. She remembers handing the knife over, willing to do anything that could give her a chance to escape, to do things over, to do them better.

Her grip on Arya loosens and Arya escapes, but before she can attack Melisandre, she’s scooped up by Ser Sandor. Sansa hadn’t even realized he joined them.

“Take my sister to her chambers,” Sansa says, her voice echoing strangely in her ears. “Make sure she doesn’t leave until I return and speak with her.”

“I hate you!” Arya shrieks, hands ineffectually hitting at Ser Sandor’s armor. “I hate both of you! I hate all of you!”

Sansa waits until Arya’s shouts are out of earshot before turning to Melisandre. The woman looks amused, like Arya’s outburst is funny, like she doesn’t think anything here can touch her.

Sansa wishes for a bright, hot moment that she could let Arya drive Needle through that smug face.

But Sansa isn’t an impulsive child. So instead she says, “I’ve heard of the red priestesses.”

Melisandre looks intrigued. “You are a believer?”

“I’ve heard of your magic,” Sansa says, “and I know how you get your power.”

“From the Lord of Light,” Melisandre says.

“Only death can power magic,” Sansa says, voice hard. She won’t let the woman’s lies or tricks deceive her. “There’s only one reason you could want that boy. I hope for your sake that you told the truth and he managed to escape.”

“Oh?” Melisandre asks.

“My sister is loyal to her friends,” Sansa says. “And I’m loyal to my sister.”

“And your husband?” Melisandre asks. “Is there loyalty between you two as well?”

“Yes,” Sansa says.

Tyrion’s hand finds hers, gripping it, reaffirming her answer.

Melisandre continues to look amused. “The Lord of Light has a plan for us all. I will pray for him to show you yours.”

Sansa’s hand squeezes her husband’s to keep her from saying anything unwise. “And when I go to the godswood, I will pray for you as well.”

“Prayer,” Tyrion says, breaking the moment. “I’ve never been particularly pious. One of my many faults. Sansa, if I might suggest checking on your sister? Ser Sandor is quite the addition to our guard, and it would be shame if he left us after being stuck with your sister again.”

“And I thought they had become such friends on their journey to us,” Sansa says, giving her husband a smile. She gives Melisandre a brief curtsey before they go up to their quarters. Sansa has a feeling they’re not going to be welcome in Castle Black much longer.

~*~

There is a lot of time in Castle Black where Sansa doesn’t have anything to do, and since she’s afraid to venture too far from her rooms without her husband or Nymeria, she spends a fair amount of time in her quarters.

She’s been working on a tapestry for the wall of their bedchamber in Winterfell, which she brought with her, and she carefully stitches the outline of a direwolf when she finds herself without any other obligations. 

This is the second tapestry she’s begun, the first is the sigil of their house and hangs proudly in the Great Chamber. This one is more true to a direwolf’s form, and she used Nymeria as a reference. It depicts a silver direwolf raising her head towards the moon, howling her defiance. 

Sansa is carefully constructing the snout when Jon bursts into her chambers. 

“Stannis is going to kill Mance Rayder,” he says.

Sansa sets her tapestry aside. “Right now?”

“He gave me the chance to talk Mance into kneeling for him, but Mance won’t. Mance, he’s -”

“You don’t need to argue his worth to me,” Sansa says. “Or his pride.”

She puts her warmest cloak on. No more men will be killed for being named king when they didn’t want it, not while she’s here. Men who name themselves king...well, Sansa is sure the gods have an appropriate fate planned for Stannis.

She snaps her fingers and Nymeria trots obediently to her side.

“Everyone’s in the courtyard,” Jon says. “Melisandre wants him burned.”

“Melisandre doesn’t rule the North,” Sansa says.

They make their way down to the courtyard, where someone has hastily erected a stand and post. Mance Rayder is strapped to the post, kindling spread all around him.

Arya and Rickon are at the front of the crowd that’s assembled, and Sansa relaxes when she sees Tyrion and Ser Sandor with them. Sansa snaps her fingers again and Shaggydog looks up from where he’s standing by Rickon.

Sansa curls her finger and the wolf obediently comes to join her at the top of the wooden stairs that lead down to the courtyard. Rickon’s eyes follow his direwolf, and he smiles, shaky, when he sees Sansa. He’s scared, but he trusts Sansa to fix things.

She takes a deep breath. “Join your men,” she tells Jon. “Leave Ghost with me.”

Ghost, who is gently butting heads with Nymeria, shows no sign that he was going to follow Jon.

“If I -”

Sansa shakes her head, cutting him off. “We have to keep you separate from this. Go to your men.”

Jon obeys, and Sansa waits until he’s standing between Sam and Eddison to clear her throat. It’s loud enough that the men in the back turn, and once they turn, the men in front of them turn, until the entire crowd is looking up to her rather than at Melisandre’s intended sacrifice.

“By whose authority do you attempt to murder those under my protection?” Sansa demands.

“He’s a wildling,” Ser Alliser says and Sansa cuts him off with a sharp glance.

“Was it your idea then, Ser Alliser, to burn this man alive?” She continues without waiting for an answer. “I ask for the final time,  _ Lord  _ Stannis. By what authority do you attempt to murder those under my protection?”

Stannis, standing by the platform beside Melisandre, draws himself to his full height. “I am the rightful King of Westeros.”

“No,” Sansa says and she begins her descent down the stairs. “You are challenging the King of Westeros, but you have no throne and no crown. Further, you are in the North, in  _ my _ land, and as Wardenness of the North, it is my responsibility to care for the people here.”

“The Starks were the stewards of the North, but you are no Stark,” Stannis tells her.

Sansa reaches the bottom of the stairs, and the crowd parts for her, giving her a clear path to where Stannis and Mance Rayder are. Ghost, Shaggydog, and Nymeria move so they’re flanking her. 

“I am a Lannister by marriage,” Sansa agrees, “but the blood of my father and his father before him runs through my veins. Mance Rayder is a prisoner of the Night’s Watch, of the North, which makes him my prisoner, not yours. You do not get to determine his fate.”

“The Lord of Light has determined his fate,” Melisandre says, stepping forward.

“You are new to the North,” Sansa says. “We do not recognize your Lord of the Light here. We worship the Seven, and they do not demand honest men be sacrificed for their amusement, or attention.”

“Honest?” Stannis demands. “He is a savage! He was given the opportunity to become one of us, and he shunned it.”

“He is a man who sticks to his principles,” Sansa counters. “He has chosen to live his life as a free man, and you have tried to force him to fit your mold. My father believed that men should conduct themselves with honor and integrity.”

“This  _ free man _ is a danger.”

“Hardly. He wants to keep his people safe, and he wants the freedom to live his life. Once winter has been turned back, Mance Rayder and all the wildlings will be given a choice. They may accept our law and our king, or they may return Beyond the Wall to live their lives as they had before.”

Sansa’s gaze flickers over to the leaders of the wildling tribes, brought out to witness the death of their king. One of them, a tall man with red hair and redder beard, gives her the slightest of nods. 

“They attack our men,” Ser Alliser says. “They raid our villages.”

“If they are south of the Wall then they follow our laws,” Sansa repeats, “or they face Northern justice. I don’t see why you are so concerned, Ser Alliser. I understand that you were marching south with Lord Stannis’s army. Are you so greedy that you need a castle in both the North and the South?”

Ser Alliser makes a sound close to a growl and immediately Sansa’s direwolves growl back, the sound rumbling through the crowd. Most of the men take a step back.

“The wildlings will not overrun our lands,” Sansa says, both for the benefit of the Night’s Watch and as a warning to the wildlings present, “but neither will we hunt them down simply for living a life different from the ones we choose to live.” She turns her attention back to Stannis and Melisandre. “And you will not harm  _ my _ people in  _ my _ land, whether you believe your god has demanded it or not. If he truly requires a sacrifice, you have men of your own.”

“A just decision,” the Maester says, an unexpected but welcome ally. “And one that the Night’s Watch will honor, Wardenness.”

Sansa fears that Stannis has grown so enraged that he’s going to put his sword through Mance’s heart, but he only cuts the bindings from the man. Mance rubs his wrists and steps off the platform, approaching Sansa with a mix of respect and apprehension in his eyes.

“I won’t kneel for you, either,” he says.

Sansa smiles. “I wouldn’t expect you to. Nor do I require it. I’m not a Queen, I’m a Wardenness; a protector.”

“My people will fight,” Mance says, “Not for you, but for our home.”

“Then they will fight all the harder,” Sansa says. “I believe the Lord Commander has begun preparations for the army that marches on us. You have seen more of this army than we have. Your insight will be invaluable. If, of course, the Lord Commander allows it.”

Sansa looks over at Jon, lashes lowered, demure like she’s simply a lady and not the center of the North’s power.

Jon, thankfully, picks up the cue she gives him. “I am forming a council to determine how best to deal with the White Walker threat,” Jon says. “I would extend an invitation to you and your leaders. Only together can we protect our land.”

Mance is wary as Jon approaches, the crowd parting to allow him to pass.

Jon sticks his hand out, and Sansa can feel the courtyard take in a collective breath. “No kneeling required.”

Mance clasps his hand. “I will fight by your side as an equal.”

With everyone’s attention on Jon and Mance, Sansa allows herself a moment of relief. She pets Nymeria’s fur, grateful that her direwolves stood by her, grateful that she was able to make Stannis see reason.

Of course, she has just destroyed any possibility of an alliance between the North and Stannis. If she hoped to prevent him from marching on Winterfell, as he had the last time she lived these events, she has certainly failed.

But she regrets none of the decisions she made here today. A man’s life is spared, an alliance is born. If Ramsay Snow could drive back Stannis’s force, she and Tyrion can certainly do the same. Winterfell is strong, in heart and in power.

Her eyes seek out her husband, and Tyrion is one of the few whose attention isn’t caught by Jon and Mance. Instead, he’s looking right at her, and he dips his head, respectful, when he sees her returning his gaze. 

Strong together, she reminds herself. Not just her and her husband, but the North and the Wall, the Night’s Watch and the wildlings. 

Unified, nothing can bring the North down.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Some non-explicit references to battle-related violence

Tyrion shakes her awake in the middle of the night.

“What? What’s happening?”

“Shh. Quietly.”

“Are we in danger?” she whispers.

“Not just now, but we’re about to be.”

“This is neutral territory,” she says, before realizing what a foolish thing she’s just said. “I suppose that doesn’t matter when only one of you has an army.”

“The essence of politics.”

They get dressed in the dark and creep across the hall to find Arya and Rickon already awake, the direwolves restless and prowling in the faint shadows cast by a single candle.

“I sent Ser Sandor to tell them to get ready,” Tyrion says.

Arya is still in her nightclothes, but she has her sword in hand.

Sansa is afraid that that is her idea of ready.

“What’s happened?” Arya asks. “Is it Stannis? You should have let me stab him.”

“Put your clothes on,” Sansa says, beyond exasperated with this attitude. “You can’t stab his whole army.”

“I so could,” Arya says.

“But what about Princess Shireen?” Tyrion asks.

Arya considers. “She’s alright, I suppose. She knows everything about dragons. I told her I’d show her where the dragon skulls are.”

Sansa privately thinks that it’s extremely unlikely that Shireen and Arya will ever go to King’s Landing, let alone at the same time. “What were you doing in the catacombs?”

“Chasing cats.”

Sansa lets that one go.

“Stannis has decided we’ve worn out our welcome,” Tyrion says. “Unless you want to walk back to Winterfell in that, I suggest you hurry.”

Contrary as a cat herself, Arya decides to listen to him and not her sister.

“But it’s Castle Black,” Rickon says. He was ready to go when they arrived. “And Jon’s Lord Commander.”

“And Stannis thinks he’s King,” Tyrion says. “I’m sure Jon would stand up for you, but we’ll just save him the trouble by getting out now.”

“Why didn’t we go yesterday?” Arya asks, finally dressed and packed. “We can’t ride in the dark.”

Sansa has been wondering that herself.

“We’ll walk the horses until dawn,” Tyrion says. “Ser Sandor and the rest of the men are bringing them around.”

They sneak through the mostly empty castle, and though it’s convenient for their escape, Sansa can’t help but worry about what this means for the Wall’s integrity, that there are so few men defending it. She hopes Jon and Mance manage to bring the wildlings round.

Arya is silent until the fires on the wall are lost amongst the trees, then immediately starts pestering Tyrion with questions. “So why did we leave now? What happened? Where’s Bronn?”

Sansa blinks. Actually, where is Bronn?

“I thought it prudent to know exactly what Stannis is doing,” Tyrion says, “especially after we defied him so blatantly. So I sent Bronn to keep an eye on things.”

“And Stannis was fine with that?” Arya demands.

“Well, he didn’t walk up and politely ask if he could spy on him,” Tyrion says dryly.

“Obviously not, Bronn is never polite.”

“You’re one to talk,” Sansa says.

Rickon laughs quietly to himself.

“Actually, Stannis promised him a castle, a title and a highborn wife if he deserted us.”

Arya makes an outraged noise.

“He didn’t,” Sansa says quickly. “Right?”

“He’s faking it,” Tyrion assures them all. “Though I’ve already had to promise him a bigger castle and a prettier wife.”

Okay, now that sounds like Bronn.

“I still don’t see why we didn’t know all this until the middle of the night.”

“Oh, well, Stannis had to consult that new god of his, let his priestess, er, evaluate Bronn’s sincerity…”

“Night is traditionally the time for clandestine dealings,” Sansa says when he trails off.

“Right,” Tyrion says. “Sneaking around in the dark. It’s an image thing.”

They emerge from the trees and onto the road about the same time the sun finally rises. The gods, at least, seem to be on their side, and they turn for Winterfell as fast as the horses can manage.

“I wish we could have taken Shireen with us,” Arya says out of nowhere.

“Going back home when Stannis doesn’t really want us there anyway is one thing,” Tyrion says, “and kidnapping a princess is quite another. Right now, all of Castle Black and probably half of Stannis’s army are willing to let us go, if only to avoid having the deaths of children on their conscience. They can delay Stannis’s departure in all kinds of ways that aren’t traceable back to them and give us time to prepare.”

“He isn’t very nice to her,” Arya says. “She told me that this is the first time she’s been away from home. Her mother likes to lock her in her room.”

“Which is why Bronn is the spy instead of you. He won’t endanger us all by rushing to her rescue.”

~*~

Whatever Jon’s people are doing to delay Stannis, it’s working. Winterfell has been substantially rebuilt since Sansa returned, but they have time to fortify the battlements, call in men from the outlying towns and give them some rudimentary training, and organize a group of local hunters to act as scouts.

“The most important part of any battle is information,” Tyrion tells everyone who asks, or challenges his or Sansa’s decisions, or just happens to be in the vicinity. “Stannis is a Southerner, and his army is mostly sell-swords and pirates. They don’t know anything about fighting in the North.”

He reads every letter from Jon multiple times, which Sansa doesn’t really understand. She reads them as well, to stay informed, but they’re mostly very boring accounts of supplies and petty brawls, punctuated with frequent complaining.

Of course, Tyrion seems to have an almost supernatural ability to glean the most astonishing information from these missives.

“Ha!” he says over the first one. “Looks like the Lady Melisandre has attempted to seduce poor Jon over to her side. She must be getting desperate.”

Sansa looks over the letter again. There’s no mention of the Lady Melisandre. “He didn’t fall for it, I hope,” she says.

“Oh, no. He panicked and ran.”

She gives up that line of conversation.

“They might get some promising new recruits for the Watch,” he says another time.

This letter is almost entirely about a vicious brawl that left half the tables in the mess hall as so much firewood.

“Hmm,” Sansa says.

But even Tyrion’s powers are unable to gather anything useful from Bronn’s infrequent notes.

“Nothing’s changed?” Tyrion shouts, crumpling up the parchment and throwing it. “How is that supposed to help?”

But there’s a delicate balance between giving Winterfell enough time to prepare for a siege and letting Stannis and his new ex-Night’s Watch recruits make trouble for Jon. The only reason Jon doesn’t find himself with outright rebellion on his hands and a sword in his gut is because he decides to release and arm the wildling prisoners as a sign of good faith, so Stannis no longer has as great an advantage in numbers.

When Tyrion hears about that, he makes a long, despairing noise, his usual eloquence deserting him.

“I think this is Jon’s idea of diplomacy,” Sansa says.

He makes another, louder sound, then goes to write a long and much ink-splattered letter that takes two ravens to deliver.

And so it happens that, a few weeks after their abrupt departure from the Wall, Jon and Bronn both send them identical notes.

Stannis is on the move.

Sansa has taken to wandering along the walls, checking that they are in good repair, ensuring that their weapon caches are full, and haunting the training sessions for the new recruits.

“Winterfell is built to withstand a siege,” Tyrion reminds her one evening.

She is hovering over her sleeping babies, even if Eddard isn’t much of a baby anymore. He hardly ever falls anymore as he charges around the halls, tripping everyone. It’s his favorite thing after Nymeria.

“I wish there had been time for reinforcements to arrive from the capital,” she says.

They have been in close communication with Lord Tywin, who is understandably concerned about keeping Stannis from getting any further south.

“Most of the royal army is occupied with securing the capital, and the Lannister forces are still tied up in the Vale and the Twins,” Tyrion says, and he doesn’t sound impatient even though he’s told her this many times already.

“I’m just worried,” she says. “My family is here.”

“They’ll be safe. You’ll be safe. Winterfell is strong, and Stannis isn’t as smart as he thinks he is. He’ll make a mistake.”

“I suppose you would know.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“No one could possibly be as smart as you think you are, my husband.”

She laughs at his chagrin, and he seems pleased that he’s succeeded in lifting her mood, even if it’s at his expense.

~*~

After that it’s just waiting, waiting and more waiting. 

Jon has one last piece of information for them, which has even Tyrion puzzled.

“He took his daughter and his wife with him? Into battle? That’s odd.”

“Perhaps he was concerned about leaving them with the wildlings?” Sansa asks.

“I suppose that could be it.”

Jon can’t tell them anything more about Stannis’s doings, and Bronn doesn’t have access to the messenger ravens, so they have to rely on their scouts for any new information.

“We’ll know when he’s close,” Tyrion assures her. “His men don’t know the terrain, and they aren’t used to the snow.”

The North itself seems to come to their aid, because a few days after Stannis leaves Castle Black, a massive storm blows in.

“This will give him a bit of trouble,” Tyrion says, as satisfied as if he’d conjured up the storm himself.

Sansa rolls her eyes at him. He’s been complaining about ‘this miserable weather’ whenever he thinks she can’t hear him.

Even she’s a little intimidated by the sheer size and intensity of the storm, and she’s lived in the North almost her whole life.

Some very unhappy scouts return to the Keep that evening and huddle around the fire, but they’re pleased to report that Stannis and his army are ten times as unhappy as they are.

“Their supplies are still stuck at the coast, the wagons unable to travel in this weather, and they’re starting to run out of food,” one man reports.

“Of course, so many horses freeze in the night, they can just eat those,” another says, accepting a bowl of hot soup. “And a bunch of the men are getting sick.” He spits into the fire. “Southerners.”

“And Stannis?” Tyrion asks. 

“Oh, he’s as determined as ever. Your man has eeled his way into his inner circle, knows Stannis better than his own mother, I reckon,” the first man says.

“That’s Bronn alright.”

“He says, that priestess has really got Stannis by the-” he glances at Sansa “-well, you know. He’s convinced that he’s the Chosen One or something, that this Lord of Light character will just miraculously give him a victory.”

“And the men? Do they believe that?”

The man snorts. “Not hardly. Most of them only believe in gold. There’s a few loyal Baratheon men, but they aren’t impressed by this priestess lady. Some real nasty rumors about what happened to Renly Baratheon going around.”

“Hmm.”

“How many of the horses have died?” Sansa asks.

“I don’t have an exact count, m’lady. Why?”

“I understand-” she glances at Tyrion “-that they’re one of Stannis’s main advantages.”

“Besides numbers, they’re his only advantage,” Tyrion confirms. “He has siege equipment, but it’s tied up with the rest of his supplies on the coast. With the horses, we don’t have a chance on open ground, and will have to stay holed up in Winterfell. If the snow keeps up and the roads stay closed, we can easily wait him out. He’ll starve long before we do.”

“But if the weather turns in his favor, and the supplies make it through…” Sansa says. She imagines catapults smashing Winterfell’s walls to bits, rams battering the gate to pieces, men storming her home...

“We could turn this weather even more to our advantage,” Tyrion says. “His men are hungry, cold and demoralized. If we send in small groups, free as many of the horses as we can, destroy the rest of the food… it won’t take much before men start deserting.”

“Back out in the cold?” the closest man says, giving the fire a mournful look.

“It might be too dangerous for our people,” Sansa says. 

The de facto leader of their scouts sighs and stands up, draining the rest of his soup in one go. “Not too much for strong Northern blood, m’lady. It’ll be easy. They don’t even have lookouts posted; everyone’s huddled up against the cold. It’s a good idea.” He glares at Tyrion, as if annoyed he was the one who came up with it.

Tyrion pretends not to notice the look. “Thank you, I rather thought so.”

~*~

This is their first, real strike against Stannis. There’s no going back now, no chance to surrender.

Not, Sansa reminds herself sternly, that there was ever a chance of that. Winterfell is hers, and while she may not care much for King’s Landing, she will not condone the killing of babies, nor will she abandon her friend.

Still, she’s almost frantic with worry, and Arya has already told her to go away and stop alarming Tommen and Rickon, and her children can obviously sense her disquiet because they start crying practically the moment she enters the room, so instead she’s pacing the entrance hall.

She almost jumps out of her skin when there’s a pounding on the door.

They have sentries, of course, but the snow is so thick that you can barely see two feet in front of you.

On the other hand, Stannis probably won’t knock.

Sansa is very respectfully elbowed out of the way as Ser Sandor and a contingent of primarily Lannister men, bristling with weapons and gleaming armor, arrange themselves in front of the door. At Ser Sandor’s signal, the wooden bars are lifted and the doors open.

It’s a lone rider on horseback, so bundled in furs as to be completely unidentifiable.

“Who goes there?” Ser Sandor demands, unsheathing his sword.

It looks very sharp and very deadly.

The rider throws back their hood.

Sansa takes a step forward. “Lady Brienne?”

There’s a rush of activity as everyone hears that is was just a false alarm and stands down, Lady Brienne is helped off her horse and bustled away, and the gate is secured again.

Sansa goes to arrange for a hot meal.

Some time later, huddled in dry furs in front of the fire and almost blue with cold, Lady Brienne gratefully sips a hot drink.

Sansa tries to contain her curiosity until the poor woman’s teeth stop chattering.

“I heard you had some trouble with Stannis Baratheon,” she says at last. “I swore an oath to avenge His Grace Renly Baratheon, rightful King of Westeros.”

“You must be joking,” Tyrion says. “So you rode all the way here? Alone? Couldn’t you at least have brought an army? Or Jaime?”

“Hush,” Sansa says. “I think it’s very noble of you to take your oaths so seriously.”

With some fumbling of numb fingers, Lady Brienne unsheathes her sword and lays it at Sansa’s feet. “I am yours to command, my lady, until with this sword I part Stannis’s lying, treacherous head from his body.”

“That’s… thank you, Lady Brienne.”

“Where did you get that sword?” Tyrion asks.

Sansa glares at him. Way to ruin the moment.

“Ser Jaime had it commissioned for me,” Lady Brienne says. “As a thank you for putting up with him on the way to King’s Landing.”

“Valyrian steel,” Tyrion says. “Tell me, have you ever seen the Wall? Your life just isn’t complete until you’ve been there at least once, that’s what I always say.”

Lady Brienne is saved from having to reply by the return of their scouts, and a report of complete success. Stannis is having a very bad night.

~*~

From what the scouts and Bronn were able to see, Stannis doesn’t have enough food to get back to Castle Black or besiege Winterfell for any length of time. Tyrion explains that this is now the most dangerous time.

“He’s backed into a corner,” he says. “There’s no telling what a desperate man might do.”

Jon sends them a raven. Apparently one of the things he’s going to do is send Ser Davos away.

“Why would he do that?” Sansa asks. “He’s much more popular with the men than Stannis is. Princess Shireen adores him, and he was kind to Rickon during our stay.”

“I have no idea,” Tyrion says. “That’s what worries me.”

Sansa goes back to pacing the entrance hall.

She isn’t even really surprised when there’s another knock at the door.

“You really shouldn’t be here,” Ser Sandor tells her.

Their new visitor isn’t any more threatening than the last one, though the lone rider resolves into two when they clamber off the horse.

“Maybe Stannis wants to surrender,” Tyrion murmurs for Sansa’s ears alone.

It isn’t Stannis, though. It’s Bronn.

“Please tell me that isn’t Shireen Baratheon with you,” Tyrion says, burying his face in his hands.

By morning, all of Winterfell has heard the story. 

Melisandre somehow convinced Stannis that the Lord of Light would grant him victory with one more sacrifice, and that the only one that would do is his own daughter.

Sansa still can’t believe any man could be so desperate for power as to do such a horrible thing.

The girl’s mother was understandably distraught, and Bronn, with his usual tact and compassion, shook her out of her hysterics and told her to go stir up some help.

The men had assembled for Shireen to be carried, kicking and screaming, to a hastily erected pyre. They all just watched with a sort of numb horror as she was bound to the post.

That was about when Lady Baratheon, shrieking like a wild thing, jumped on the nearest man and demanded if this was the kind of King he swore oath to. Like that was a signal, the whole camp exploded into violence, most of the men wanting to just grab what they could and leave.

Bronn had no idea if Stannis managed to regain control or not, because he grabbed Shireen and Stannis’s own horse and lit out of there. He’s not stupid.

“That’s debatable,” Tyrion says, but his heart isn’t in it.

“You can stay in my room,” Arya tells Shireen, “and you can borrow my direwolf. I’ll show you how to use a sword.”

~*~

The next day, the storm finally breaks.

Tyrion is determined not to waste their advantages, and gets every man who can ride a horse and wield a weapon armed and mounted. He divides them between Bronn and Ser Sandor, and they ride out to flank whatever remains of Stannis’s army.

Lady Brienne takes a smaller unit up the middle, determined to ensure that Stannis does not live to fight another day.

It works perfectly, and Stannis’s troops are crushed. Most had already fled, or surrendered when they saw the strength of the force bearing down on them. 

Not only does Lady Brienne get to kill Stannis personally, but she even manages to get a confession out of him. He did use black magic to kill his brother in the night. 

Sansa hears about all this later. When Winterfell’s army has departed, leaving only archers and a skeleton force--and Arya--to defend the Keep, and Tyrion is fully occupied with coordinating everything, she takes her own horse and Nymeria and rides out into the forest.

It’s easier, mounted and in the daylight, and soon enough she finds the Lady Melisandre just stopping to rest her horse.

“Did you do this?” Melisandre asks.

“You did,” Sansa says.

That surprises her.

“You’re wrong about Stannis, by the way,” Sansa says.

“He is the-”

“Winter is coming regardless of who sits on the Iron Throne,” Sansa interrupts. “It doesn’t matter. The North is  _ trying _ to assemble, and I’d be much obliged if you’d stop stirring up wars and distracting us.”

Melisandre gives her a sharp look. “You believe in the winter?”

Sansa rolls her eyes. “The North is my heart and my home. I am a Lannister by marriage, but I haven’t forgotten my heritage. Don’t lecture a Stark about the winter, Southerner.”

“If you believe, you must know that these measures are necessary.”

“I know no such thing. I went to the Wall and discussed what they need in manpower and supplies, and what weapons work against the undead and what don’t. What were you doing? Besides trying to seduce my brother and burn potential allies at the stake, I mean.”

Melisandre glares at her.

“You and I have been here before, and Stannis suffered the same, ignoble defeat,” Sansa says. “The gods do not approve of your methods.”

“What do you mean, we’ve been here before?”

“You sent me back in time in this very place,” Sansa says. “To stop the winter. And that is exactly what I am trying to do. I do not appreciate you laying siege to my home.”

“Back in time,” Melisandre says. “That must be the power I sensed, the power that drew me here.”

Sansa doesn’t know anything about that and she doesn’t care to. “I think it’s giving you more credit than you deserve, but perhaps you really do want to stop the winter. In that case, let me give you a piece of advice. People might believe in your sincerity more if you spent less time sacrificing helpless children and maybe paid a little of your god’s costs out of your own body, your own soul. Just a thought.”

Sansa has a sudden suspicion about Melisandre’s fixation on burning people, and how it was “necessary” for Sansa to be unconscious for her journey into the past. She wonders if her knife got any use, or if Theon-of-the-past suffered the same fate meant for Mance Rayder and Shireen Baratheon.

She has no way of knowing, and it doesn’t matter now. Theon-of-the-present is back in his home, among his family, with a promise of decent treatment extracted by force. No further debt is owed.

Sansa turns her horse around.

“Because of your actions, I have a home and a family again. I am safe and happy and preparing to combat the winter. So I won’t kill you here, now, even though my husband would probably call me a sentimental fool. But rest assured, if you ever make trouble for me or mine again, my hand will not hesitate on the blade.”

And Sansa rides for home.


	5. Chapter 5

The days after Stannis’s siege-that-wasn’t are almost as chaotic as those preceding it. The majority of his force is put to the sword, or succumbs to the elements, but that still leaves a large number.

“The fight was the easy part,” Tyrion says.

It doesn’t take long for Sansa to see what he means.

The sky is dark with ravens morning and night as news pours in and out of Winterfell, and Lord Tywin is threatening to come here personally to confirm that they somehow crushed Stannis’s ambitions in a single battle.

Tyrion has managed to keep him at bay so far, but only with daily ravens and frequent, diplomatic reminders of his many existing responsibilities.

Many of Stannis’s surviving men surrendered, and now they have to be housed, fed, and kept from starting trouble. There are two different families of pirates, who can’t be left together without blood being shed, and the sell-swords are worse. The few Baratheon bannermen are the worst, though, insisting on the privileges due a highborn prisoner, and she is starting to see why Robb tied Jaime Lannister to a post and left him there.

Others escaped, and instead of doing the sensible thing and fleeing the North, many of them have turned to banditry, and endlessly harass the outlying farms. The local men who gathered to help repel Stannis’s siege hasten to defend their homes, and the remaining Winterfell force is fully occupied with patrols, trying to catch some of these men.

And then there are the dead.

Sansa thankfully has very little to do with that aspect, just issuing general orders. There are bodies to collect, and massive pyres to be built. They are a fair distance from the Wall, but Sansa won’t risk having to fight off Stannis’s army a second time.

Stannis’s body is left in the snow with a cage over it to protect it from animals. Lord Tywin wants it, and it’s only fair to return the favor when he sent her everything she wanted from the Eyrie, but Sansa is not going to let that man rest beside her father and ancestors while they wait for Lord Tywin to send an escort for it.

The snow will preserve the body well enough.

There is one good thing that comes out of the mess of battle, besides the victory.

Stannis’s camp yields little by way of supplies, but they do recover a prisoner: Lady Selyse Baratheon.

She is half-frozen by the time they find her, and her recovery is slow. But her daughter stays by her side, holding her hand and feeding her broth, crawling under the furs and curling up against her.

Arya is suspicious at first, recounting loudly to anyone nearby that Lady Selyse hated and imprisoned her daughter, that she can’t be trusted, and generally making the whole situation highly embarrassing for everyone involved.

And Sansa can’t even send her out to hunt, because there is real danger out there.

“Just stop that,” Rickon says, surprising everyone. “It’s Shireen’s mother, so let her decide what she wants. It’s none of your business.”

Arya retreats in a huff, and Shireen gives him a shy smile.

That’s the end of the matter as far as the children are concerned, but later, when Rickon has convinced Shireen to come look at Winterfell’s library with him, Sansa’s presence is requested in Lady Selyse’s sickroom.

“I didn’t mean to be a bad mother,” she says.

“I know,” Sansa says, wondering why she has been chosen as confidante. Right, she is Lady here.

“But I was.”

“I’m sure you weren’t.”

“I was!”

“Okay.”

“I just wanted to give my lord a son so badly. But all of our babes were dead in my belly, three sons that never drew breath, and when Shireen was born it seemed like a cruel joke the gods were playing on me.”

Sansa can understand that, to an extent. She was equally desperate for a son, for safety, to prove that she was a good wife. But she can’t imagine that she would have loved her children any less, had Jaime been born first.

“I kept them, my poor boys, and when she came down with Greyscale, an infant in her cradle, I was sure she would join them, my children together at last.”

Okay, now that Sansa doesn’t understand.

“He called on some foreign power to deliver her, and I knew then that it was a sign, that such a power would deliver me some day. When the Lady Melisandre came, I was sure that she was that power. I welcomed her and her Lord of Light into our home, into our bed, but she was a snake, a wolf in sheep’s clothing, and she twisted him, perverted him with her black magic and her wiles, and tried to take Shireen from me. A sickly daughter, yes, but still my child. My child!” She bursts into tears.

Well. That… yes. “There, there,” Sansa says. “All is well, now.”

Thankfully Shireen returns shortly after that, and Sansa can go and cuddle her children.

She recounts the whole, extraordinary tale to Tyrion later that night, still not quite able to believe she heard true.

“And to think I was worried because of her bloodlines,” he says.

“I’m serious! I think she is quite mad!”

“So am I. Mad or not, she is wife to a traitor and mother to the last of the Baratheon bloodline. I doubt there is much support left for the stag banner, but their presence here is rather… inconvenient.”

“I don’t see how it is any different from Rickon’s survival,” Sansa says. “Nor why we can’t deal with it the same way.”

“Yes, it will set everyone’s minds at ease to have them both safely married and let the name of Baratheon fade.”

Sansa tactfully does not mention Tommen or Briar.

“Rickon seems fond of the former princess,” Tyrion says.

“Oh, but… Rickon? Do you think?” Sansa considers the idea. “King Robert was a great friend of my father’s. I suppose they would both be pleased to hear of their bloodlines joined at last.” Better than her and Joffrey, certainly.

“Shireen is a lovely girl.”

Sansa still isn’t convinced. “But Lady Selyse is so…” There’s no polite way to finish that thought.

“Is it any worse than Tommen and Arya?”

He does have a point. Cersei may not be mad--though that is debatable, especially after what happened at Joffrey’s funeral--but she is malicious and cruel. “But Cersei is Lady of Highgarden,” Sansa points out. “And Tommen and Arya will be in the Eyrie.”

“And this could be the same. The Baratheon line has suffered significant upset in recent years, as you know, and while technically King Briar has inherited all of it, he will of course remain in King’s Landing to rule, and my father does not want to give anyone cause to look too closely at the succession.”

Right, because Briar is not truly a Baratheon.

“They hold two strategically relevant lands: Dragonstone, which is at the mouth of Blackwater Bay and contains the only known supply of dragonglass in Westeros, and the family seat at Storm’s End. My father has already appropriated Dragonstone for the Crown, which in light of Stannis’s siege of King’s Landing and it’s complete lack of any other resource probably won’t be challenged. That leaves Storm’s End, just waiting for Baratheon blood to return. I’ve heard it’s very nice; Rickon could be happy there.”

“It amazes me that you can think of all these things,” Sansa says.

He flushes. “Well, we all have our skills. You have united a fractured North under one banner and brokered a truce with the wildlings. I… know things.”

“I have not done either of those things alone,” Sansa says. She sighs. “You’re right, as usual. It’s a good match, a good prospect, and they are already fond of each other. I don’t suppose you have any ideas for Lady Selyse?”

“She’d be pretty enough, if she weren’t grieving and ill, and still has a few years of childbearing left to her. She did have one healthy child, so she might be able to have another. Or make sure she marries into a large extended family, just in case.”

“But she’s mad,” Sansa says, not sure why she has to point this out again.

“Not everyone aspires to a love match,” Tyrion says. He grips her hand, and they share a moment. “There are plenty of men out there who will marry only for the necessity, won’t be too troubled by the lack of an heir, and just want to get this marriage business over with so they can carry on with their regular duties.” He ponders the question. “Huh.”

“What is it?” Sansa asks.

“I’ve just thought of someone.”

~*~

Her husband refuses to tell her who he plans to marry Lady Selyse to, telling her that ‘there must still be some mystery in our marriage’ even as he sends off ravens to Lord Tywin. It takes Sansa only a few minutes to determine that she has no close relatives she cares to intervene for that Lady Selyse might be matched to. Except perhaps Jon, but he is protected by his oaths to the Night’s Watch. She decides that Tyrion can have his mysteries.

During the after-battle clean up, Sansa is able to spend more time with her family. It is for them, of course, that she has fought as hard as she has to make Winterfell, to make the whole of the North, safe.

Little Eddard is not so little anymore, and Nora has passed the care of him to someone younger and more able to follow him as he explores the castle. Sansa finds his adventures charming, possibly because she’s not the one who has to chase after him.

This morning, she finds Eddard unusually still, sitting in Rickon’s lap while Shireen reads to them from a book. Sometimes Eddard raises a hand to bat at the pages or try to grip the fragile paper with his hands, but Rickon gives his nephew his own fingers to grip and wave about.

Rickon smiles every time Eddard does this, and even Shireen will pause between tales of her dragons to pat Eddard’s cheek.

Sometimes Jaime listens to the story from her cradle, other times she is too fussy and has to be brought somewhere she won’t disturb the readers. 

These are the images Sansa burns into her mind - her family around a fire reading, her family home and smiling again - and she brings them to the front of her memory every time she is faced with something unpleasant. 

“There are still ships near the Wall,” Tyrion says over their midday meal, “We could try shipping the army back to where it came.”

“Give pirates a fleet of ships?” Sansa asks.

“True.” Tyrion taps his glass of juice. “I wonder if this will be the end of the Iron Bank. My father owes them a great deal of money they won’t see any time soon, and the army they sent via Stannis to collect it is more concerned with other things.”

“Can the bank fail?” Sansa asks.

She can manage a household, and she, with Tyrion’s help, can manage Winterfell, but the scale of money management that the Iron Bank is on is something too big for her to comprehend. 

“I don’t know,” Tyrion says, “Fortunately, it is not our problem. If at some point they decide to collect, we will either be swept away by winter or safe up in the North.”

“Reassuring as ever, my husband,” Sansa says.

“Sometimes I think too far ahead,” he admits. “We must focus on the crisis at hand and hope the others are courteous enough to wait in line until we are ready for them. Speaking of crises, the farm just east of us is having mouse difficulties.”

Sansa laughs even though she knows it’s not funny. Here she is in Winterfell, trying to contain a scattered hostile army and prepare for the defense of the Wall, and her people come to her with petitions regarding mice.

“It’s a serious issue,” Tyrion says, but he’s smiling as well. “Have you ever had a mouse run over your face while you were sleeping?”

“No,” Sansa says, “but now I fear I’ll dream of it.”

“I’ll keep you safe,” Tyrion promises.

“Our cats keep me safe,”  Sansa says. “Do we have cats to spare?”

“We’ll have to ask your sister. She’s the cat expert.”

“Please stop reminding me,” Sansa says. Her sister has not stopped her entirely bizarre habit of stalking the cats. Whichever cats are chosen to go to the farm will live much better lives than they have here.

“At least we know what to get her and Tommen as a wedding present.”

“Cats?” Sansa asks.

“It’s something she’ll enjoy,” Tyrion says, full out grinning now. “And it’s practical. The perfect gift.”

“I believe I’m going to make them a tapestry,” Sansa says, “Which is not practical, and Arya will not enjoy, but Tommen at least will say thank you.”

“You have a way with a needle,” Tyrion says, and she studies him a moment, making sure he isn’t mocking her.

“I enjoy it,” she says. “When things have calmed down more, there are few things I take more pleasure in than designing new dresses. I stood up to the Greyjoys and the Karstarks because I had to, and I held my ground against Stannis, but that was a duty I took no pleasure in. I take pleasure from my needlework.”

“We will have peace again,” Tyrion promises.

“Again?” Sansa asks, trying for a smile but not quite managing it. “When did we have peace in the first place?”

~*~

They receive two ravens from Lord Tywin on the same day, and Tyrion calls a small council of himself, Sansa, Brienne, and Bronn. 

“The first shipment of dragonglass is on its way,” Tyrion says, “and my father has asked that I accompany the second personally.”

Sansa doesn’t keep the alarm from her voice when she says, “You’re leaving?”

“I need to do a circuit of the south,” Tyrion says, “Gather what allies we have down there and bring reinforcements for the wall.”

Sansa knew they would have to be separated at some point, but it doesn’t make it easier to accept. She doesn’t want her husband to leave her. What if something happens to him? What if a threat arises she doesn’t know how to face? What if he goes to King’s Landing and doesn’t come back?”

“And,” Tyrion clears his throat, “the other matter.”

“The other matter?” Sansa asks.

Tyrion holds up the second note. “We are to bring Lady Selyse to Casterly Rock where she will meet her future husband.”

It takes Sansa longer than it should to catch Tyrion’s meaning, because, no, he can’t - “Jaime?” she asks.

“I don’t know who gets the worse end of that,” Bronn comments.

Brienne gives him a sharp look.

“Jaime,” Tyrion confirms, ignoring the other two. “But we won’t be going alone.”

He’s hesitating again, the way he does whenever he is about to break news Sansa won’t like. She wishes he would just tell her and get it over with.

“You’re taking Brienne with you,” she guesses.

“As well as Shireen and her betrothed.”

Rickon. He’s taking Rickon from Winterfell.

Sansa sits, heavily, in the chair nearest her. 

“My lady,” Tyrion begins but she waves him off.

“I know it must be done.” 

Winter is coming, and it will hit the North first. If they can’t turn it back then Casterly Rock will at least be safer longer than Winterfell. And if they do turn it back, Rickon will have to leave Winterfell anyways.

“Shireen should be with her mother,” Sansa says, “And when they are of age, they can go to Storm’s End. Jaime can train Rickon to fight with a sword just as well as our master-at-arms. I suppose this means I should bring Arya and Tommen to the Eyrie.”

“Unless you want Arya sneaking to the Wall to fight,” Tyrion says.

She absolutely does not want that.

“Then we each have our journeys,” Sansa says. “Is there any other news from Lord Tywin?”

Tyrion shakes his head. 

“Very well,” Sansa says. She gathers her skirts and stands, becoming Lady of Winterfell once again. Soon, she’ll be able to rest. “I assume you will bring Bronn and Brienne with you?”

“Podrick, too. And a small guard.”

“Ser Sandor stays with me,” Sansa says. “Shaggydog will not want to be parted from Rickon, and a direwolf can only help you, so he will accompany you as well. We’ll still have Nymeria. I should go break the news to Arya and Rickon.”

“Would you like me to accompany you?”

Sansa shakes her head. “They will be distraught, and I am confident that Arya will not run me through with her sword. I’m less confident of her feelings towards you. Do not leave without saying goodbye first.”

“It will take several days to make preparations,” Tyrion assures her.

Sansa nods and exits the room.

~*~

Sansa doesn’t want her family to be scattered to the corners of the kingdom, but she understands why it must be done. That doesn’t make it any easier to sit Arya and Rickon down and explain to them what’s about to happen.

It doesn’t help that she has to ask Shireen to go find her mother, because Shireen hasn’t left Arya and Rickon’s side since she came to stay at Winterfell. And Arya isn’t stupid, she knows something’s going on.

As soon as Sansa has seen Shireen out, she turns back to see her younger sister, arms crossed, a scowl fixed on her face.

“You’re not going to hurt her,” Arya says. “I won’t let you.”

“I’m not going to hurt her,” Sansa says, annoyed that her sister would think that. “I’m going to keep her safe. I’m going to keep all of you safe.”

Arya’s suspicion deepens. “You can’t promise that.”

“No,” Sansa agrees, “but there are things I can do.”

“What kind of things?”

“We’re preparing for war,” Sansa says, “and I want both of you as far from it as possible.”

“No!” Arya says.

“You’re sending us away?” Rickon asks.

“Winterfell is now your second home,” Sansa says, “and you have to prepare to travel to your new homes, where you’ll be Lord and Lady.”

“No,” Arya says again. “I’m going to fight! You can’t stop me. I’ll run away to the Wall. Jon will take me.”

Sansa makes a note to increase the guard outside Arya’s door to make sure she doesn’t do that. “I am going to take you and Tommen to the Eyrie where you’ll meet the other Lords and Ladies of the Vale, and you’ll begin to create a home and a life there. Far, far away from the conflict on the Wall.”

“I won’t go. You can’t make me.”

Sansa’s gaze hardens as she looks at her sister. “You’ve seen what I’ve done to keep the North safe - I’ve ordered Ramsay’s body torn apart by Nymeria, I’ve sentenced Theon to a life of suffering, and I stood up to Stannis and his entire army. And that was to protect the North as a whole. What do you think I’ll do to keep my family safe?”

Arya’s eyes widen.

Sansa doesn’t want to scare her, she just wants Arya to listen for once in her life. She kneels in front of her sister. “You’re going to enjoy the Eyrie. There’ll be freedom there for you. You won’t have any older sisters telling you what to do. And you’ll have Tommen so you won’t be alone.”

“Tommen will let me do anything I want,” Arya says, and Sansa can see her starting to warm up to the idea of leaving. “But people will call me Lady.”

“You are a lady,” Sansa reminds her.

“Which means I can tell people what to do, and they have to listen. I can keep sword training.”

Sansa leaves Arya to her daydreams about swords and turns to Rickon. He still has a few unshed tears making his eyes glassy. 

“And you,” she says, “you’re going on an adventure, too. You’re going with Tyrion to Casterly Rock. Do you know where that is?”

“That’s the Lannister home,” he says. “I’m not a Lannister.”

“No, you’re not, but you’re also not quite old enough to go to Storm’s End yet.”

“Storm’s End is where the Baratheons live.”

“I know,” Sansa says. She cups his cheek. “And when you’re old enough, you and Shireen are going to get married, and Storm’s End will be where you live. You like Shireen, don’t you?”

“I have to marry her?”

“Not yet. But one day. And you can build a library together. Would you like that?”

He nods.

“But it’s too soon for you to go to Storm’s End, and Shireen’s mother is going to marry Ser Jaime so you’re going to go to Casterly Rock with them. It’s safer there than in the North. And it’ll be a whole new castle to explore. You’ll like it. And Shaggydog will go with you so you won’t be alone. You’ll bring some of the North with you.”

She moves her hand from Rickon’s cheek, to his chest. “And you’ll always carry the North here, in your heart.”

“I’ll be far away,” he says.

“I will write you every day if that’s what you want,” Sansa tells him. “The ravens will make the distance seem shorter. And I will come visit you, of course.”

He throws his arms around her and clings, like he used to do to Father when he would go on long trips. “What about you? Where are you going?”

“I’m staying here,” Sansa says.

“But you said it wasn’t safe.”

“We can’t all leave,” Sansa says, pulling back so she can look him in the eyes. “There must always be a Stark in Winterfell, remember?”

“I don’t want to leave you,” Rickon says, tears finally spilling over. “I want it to be like it was before. all of us together and happy again.”

“You will be happy again,” she promises him, wiping the tears from his cheeks. “All I want is for you to be safe and happy. It will hurt to be away from Winterfell. I know. I was forced to live in King’s Landing for a long time, but I found things that could make me smile. Keep your eyes open, let yourself smile, let yourself make a new home. Can you do that for me?”

Rickon nods, sniffling loudly. “You’ll write letters?”

“Of course.”

“I want letters, too,” Arya says.

She’s inched closer to them, like she wants a hug but doesn’t want to admit it.

“I want you to tell me about all the fights that I miss. About the wights and the White Walkers. You have to make them interesting.”

“I will,” Sansa says.

“And gory,” Arya adds, testing the waters.

“It will be like you were on the Wall when it happened,” Sansa promises.

Arya joins their hug.

~*~

For her goodbyes to Tyrion, Sansa wants to do something special. They’ve come such a long way since they first married (either time), and she’s told him she loves him when there were so many times she thought there could never be such an emotion between them. They’ve never been parted for so long.

Her husband, however, is being frustratingly elusive. It can’t be that difficult to plan a journey. Lady Selyse and Shireen might be highborn, but they have no carts of possessions to be packed, or retinues of servants to be corralled.

It turns out that he had the same idea.

“My lady,” Tyrion says.

Sansa has been spending her days with the little reading circle, where Arya has condescended to listen to tales of dragons and invent her own gruesome additions and everyone pretends not to hear Jaime’s noisy contributions. They all want to cherish what might be their last moments together for a very long time.

“Is there something wrong?” Sansa asks.

“No, nothing wrong. I just wondered if I might borrow you for an hour or so, my wife. I promise to bring you right back.”

He does love his mysteries. “Very well.”

He waits outside while she hugs and kisses her children and siblings, including Shireen on impulse.

“Let’s take a walk,” he says.

It’s been snowing for three days, and at this rate they’ll have to crawl out the windows to reach the stables when Tyrion and his party finally depart. “In the snow?”

“We don’t have to go far.”

“If that’s what you want,” Sansa says, humoring him. He’ll tire of the cold and snow long before she does.

She doesn’t have to exit through a window in the end, because there is an obviously recently cleared path through the drifts.

“What is this?” she asks.

“I wanted to say goodbye to you properly.”

These last few months, in between crises, she’s seen a new, romantic side of her husband. “I’m intrigued.”

“It’s a surprise,” he says, looking very pleased with himself.

They make their way along the narrow path, and it’s soon clear that their destination is the godswood.

Sansa hasn’t been here often since their return. She brought her children to be blessed, of course, but she has no need of a sanctuary like she did in King’s Landing, and old memories try to rise and keep it from being the sanctuary it should have been. She hopes that old ghosts won’t ruin this now.

She needn’t have worried.

“Oh,” she gasps, as they turn the corner.

A small clearing has been painstakingly created around the heart tree, ringed with lanterns. At first glance, it isn’t so very different from when Ramsay brought her here to marry her. But even though it’s snowing, the sun filters through the clouds to illuminate the scene, glancing off tiny flakes falling like stars. With the husband of her choice by her side, it’s magical. 

“It’s so beautiful!” she exclaims, turning in time to catch Tyrion looking anxious before he covers it with a smile.

“I’m glad you like it.” He takes her arm and escorts her to the heart tree. He clears his throat, shifting nervously from foot to foot. “I know you didn’t have the husband or life you dreamed of, and I thought, if you wanted, you should at least have the wedding you wanted. If you want.”

Again, Ramsay tries to intrude on the moment, but she refuses to allow it. He is dead and gone, and he has no place here. “It’s a lovely thought.”

A brilliant and slightly relieved smiled breaks out over his face.

Just at that moment, the laden branches drop snow on the little circle of lanterns, extinguishing them immediately.

Tyrion sighs. “Well, a thought, anyway.”

Sansa laughs. “There’s still enough light to see.”

The wind whistles and the snow falls more heavily, like it’s taken Sansa’s words as a challenge.

“Just come along,” Tyrion says, tugging her back the way they came. But instead of turning into Winterfell, he strikes out into the woods.

“This is turning into quite an adventure,” Sansa teases.

They end up in one of the temporary shelters built for dealing with the aftermath of Stannis’s army. It’s small, basically just four walls and a roof, but it’s warmer than the outside, and there are blankets and emergency food stores.

“This is romantic,” Tyrion says dryly, as Sansa spreads the blankets out on the floor.

“I think it’s perfect,” she says, finding a comfortable place to sit and tugging on his hand. “Perfect for us.”

He gives her a searching look, but must see the sincerity on her face, and lets her pull him down. “Well… if you say so.”

“We should do it here,” she says.

“Um. What?”

“We should have a wedding here. Just us, just for us.”

Tyrion looks around, at the raw wood of the walls, the snow drifting under the door. “Here?”

He sounds skeptical, but Sansa doesn’t care. She’s been married in the grandest Sept in all of Westeros, in the godswood of her childhood home… but none of those were for her. She doesn’t need beautiful surroundings, or a setting of any great significance. “Yes. We’re already married in the eyes of the gods, this is just for us.”

“You shouldn’t have to settle. I wanted you to have something special.”

“It’s special because it’s you that’s here with me.”

He blushes over his whole face, which might be the most charming thing she’s ever seen.

She can’t help herself, and leans over to kiss him.

“It’s your special day,” he says, brushing her hair back from her face. “What would you have of me?”

In the rush to follow him, Sansa had grabbed her bag, and she reaches for it now. Surely there must be something… “Here,” she says.

“A ribbon?”

“I use it to practice stitches,” she says. “It’s not important. We can have our own little private ceremony.”

“Did you… want to follow your traditions? The Northern traditions?”

She shakes her head. “We’ve always had both traditions here at Winterfell. My father worships the Old Gods, but my mother has always believed in the Seven. They’re both my traditions.”

“As you wish.”

They each take one end of the ribbon, with all its random patterns and uneven edges. There are ribbons made especially for these occasions, but Sansa likes this better. There are stitches she made with her own hands, practicing an especially elaborate detail on one of her tapestries, and she likes the thought that this union is something she made.

“Yes,” she says. “This is perfect.”

They kneel side by side and bind their hands together, not without a few awkward moments. 

“I can see why they usually have someone else do the binding,” Sansa says, when their arms get tangled.

Tyrion grins, and she laughs, and it’s exactly what she wants from this moment. 

And when it’s finally done, and their eyes meet, it’s time for their vows. She swore herself to him in King’s Landing, and she meant it, but these words come straight from her heart.

“Father. Smith. Warrior. Mother. Maiden. Crone. Stranger,” they say together, not taking their eyes off each other. “I am yours, and you are mine, from this day, until the end of my days.”

Tyrion smiles, and leans forward to kiss her.

“Until the end of my days,” he whispers against her cheek.

“Until the end of my days,” she promises.


	6. Chapter 6

Sansa’s hesitant to leave Winterfell when it comes time. Tyrion has already left with Rickon and Shireen, and she doesn’t want to leave Winterfell unguarded. Yes, there are men to defend it, and Winterfell is as whole as it has been since her Father ruled here, but nothing good ever happens when all the Starks leave Winterfell.

“You’re not all leaving,” Nora reminds her, when Sansa lingers in the courtyard as everyone else gets on their horses.

Sansa looks up towards the tower where Eddard and Jaime have their nursery. 

“Keep them safe while I’m gone,” Sansa asks - pleads really - even though she knows there’s not much an aging servant can do if there’s an attack.

“Come home to them quickly,” Nora says. “We’ll all be waiting for you.”

Ser Sandor grunts, his patience waning, and Sansa allows herself one last, lingering look at where her children sleep before going to her horse. 

She knows that Ser Sandor isn’t pleased about going with them, he’s been a part of nearly every counter-raiding party since Stannis’s army was defeated, and he’s finally been able to wet his sword. Sansa can’t promise him battles on the way to the Eyrie - she prays there will be no battles - but with Bronn and Brienne gone with Tyrion, she needs Ser Sandor at her side.

She doesn’t trust anyone else to protect her as fiercely as he does.

Well, she amends, looking down at Nymeria, almost anyone.

But when she delivers Arya to the Eyrie, she’ll have to say her goodbyes to Nymeria, and she’ll be glad for Ser Sandor’s protection on the journey home.

“Are we ready to leave?” Sansa asks, as if they weren’t all waiting on her. 

“If we have to,” Ser Sandor says. “I’ve seen enough of the fucking North to last a lifetime.”

Someone in the guard makes a choked noise, and Sansa clicks her tongue.

“Language, Ser Sandor. I have the delicate ears of a lady.”

Arya barks out a laugh, and Ser Sandor just grunts again before leading their party out of the keep.

~*~

She keeps to herself when they make camp that night, knowing that Arya has not quite forgiven her for splitting their family up again.

She’s close enough to Arya and Tommen to hear Tommen’s quiet, “I’m frightened.”

“Of what?” Arya asks. “The woods? Animals won’t come near the fire, and I’ll protect you from any bandits.”

“Not of the woods,” Tommen says. “The men whisper, they say winter is finally coming. Will it reach all the way down to the Eyrie?”

“My sister won’t let it,” Arya says, and Sansa allows herself a small smile. “She’s going to the Wall, and she’s going to fight, which is stupid, because she doesn’t even know how to use a sword. But Jon will be there, and I’m sure the Hound will be there, and he’s a good fighter even if he is a brute.”

“And my Uncle Tyrion will be there,” Tommen says. “He fought bravely at the Battle of the Blackwater. Mother said he was a coward, but I heard about what he did with the wildfire.” Tommen is quiet for a moment. “Do you think, when we are Lord and Lady, that my mother could come for a visit? I haven’t seen her for a long time.”

“As long as I can go on a hunt or something when she comes. I don’t like her.”

Sansa has to turn her face into her cloak to muffle her laugh, and then she decides to stop eavesdropping before she gets caught. 

~*~

They reach the Eyrie without incident, and Sansa tries not to imagine what the path between the mountains must have been like when there were bodies displayed for the new arrivals to see. The bodies have been buried and the stakes have been removed, but Sansa’s gaze still drifts, wondering where Petyr Baelish had been left to keep watch.

It’s a relief to enter the castle, to be away from her imaginings of the carnage. At least until she sees the Moon Door and different memories rise up to haunt her.

The door is closed, but she still keeps her distance as she crosses the chamber floor to greet the Lords and Ladies of the Vale who have come to receive their new Lord and Lady of the Eyrie.

“Lady Anya,” Sansa greets, curtseying before the elderly woman. Her hair is losing its color and is kept pinned in tight curls at the top of her head.

Sansa has difficulty seeing her, because another image of her is warring for Sansa’s attention. Last time she was here, last time she stood before these men and this woman, she was defending Lord Baelish for her aunt’s murder. Last time she stood here, she thought she was playing the game well and only secured for herself a worser fate.

She’s wiser than she was the last time she stood here, and there is no Robin to avoid, no Aunt Lysa to fear, no Lord Baelish to mistakenly trust. There is only her family, her men sworn to protect her, and the heads of Houses sworn to defend the Vale and the Eyrie.

“Lady Sansa,” Lady Anya returns. “We hope your journey was uneventful.”

“It was,” Sansa says. “May I introduce to you, Lord Tommen Baratheon and Lady Arya Stark?”

She motions for the two children to come forward and they do, Tommen smiling politely as he’s been taught, and Arya scowling from under her bangs. She will need a haircut soon, Sansa can’t help but think.

“You have kept watch over the Eyrie in light of recent circumstances,” Sansa says. “I would ask that you do so for just a little longer. When they are of age, Tommen and Arya will marry and rule the Eyrie and act as Wardens of the East, but every ruler, especially those that are young when they begin to rule, depends on good counsel. I can think of no better mentors than you.”

Lord Yohn puffs his chest up a bit, but Lady Anya is watching Sansa, shrewd, assessing.

“Someone has offered you good counsel,” Lady Anya says. “You have great confidence for one so young.”

“I have a husband well-versed in matters of politics,” Sansa says, “and I have had no choice but to learn. The North was in turmoil when I returned to it. Turmoil that reached you before it could be resolved. I offer my condolences for your loss.” Sansa bows her head.

“Your loss as well,” Lord Yohn tells her. “We made sure your aunt and cousin were given a proper burial.”

“Thank you,” she says, “and I made sure the Boltons and the Greyjoys were punished for what they did here.”

“We heard of what you did,” Lady Anya says. The assessing look is back. “We are glad strength has returned to the North.”

Arya’s begun to fidget, and Sansa knows it’s only a matter of time before she interrupts with something rude.

“Lord Yohn, you were responsible for training my cousin, Lord Robin, in the ways of fighting once his father was called to serve in the capital, were you not?”

“I was,” Lord Yohn says. He spares a glance for Tommen, who looks small but regal in his fine, tailored clothes. “The art of war did not come naturally to him.”

Sansa puts a hand on her sister’s shoulder and gives her a nudge forward. “I believe you will find Arya a more diligent and successful pupil.”

“A girl?” Lord Yohn asks.

“A girl,” Sansa says. “Lady Anya did say you have heard of what I did to the Bolton bastard, did she not?  A  _ girl _ will do what she must to defend her land and defend her home. And Arya is not just any girl. She is a Stark, and she is to be your lady. You will find no better candidate to be Defender of the Vale.”

“I’ve already got a sword,” Arya says, patting its hilt. “Its got a name. And I’ve killed people with it.”

Sansa’s smile gets a touch strained.

Lady Anya laughs and says, “Well, aren’t you a little spitfire? Yohn, stop your grumbling. Women can fight just as well as men. And men can run a household just as well as women.”

“I’m good with numbers,” Tommen says. He immediately regrets speaking as everyone turns their attention to him. 

Arya reaches back to clasp his hand. “My sister says marriage is about compromise, about being good partners. That’s what we’re going to be.”

“As the lady wishes,” Lord Yohn says. “Perhaps we could show you where you’re going to be living.”

“Thank you,” Tommen says, speaking before Arya can. “We are grateful for your hospitality.”

It’s not going to be a typical marriage, Sansa thinks, looking between her sister and Tommen, but she thinks it will be one that works well anyways.

~*~

Sansa cannot stay in the Eyrie for long, there is a war coming, and she must finish her preparations for it, but she’s reluctant to leave. Arya has found a new household to torment, to push her luck with, and Sansa says nothing as her sister runs about in torn clothes, challenging every squire in the place to a duel. Sansa won’t be here to keep an eye on her sister and so either Lord Yohn and Lady Anya will or Arya will take more freedom than she ever could’ve imagined having.

Tommen, he settles too, spending his days looking over histories of the Eyrie, learning about the Vale, and sitting in the Great Hall as petitions come forward. No one expects him to rule yet, but it’s a good opportunity to learn, and he takes his lessons with a grace his older brother never possessed.

There is no need for Sansa to stay, and there is a great need for her to leave, but she still finds herself saying, “One more day and we’ll be back on the road.” What she doesn’t say is ‘one more day to see my sister smile, one more day to see her safe and happy, one more day where I can pretend that this is a guarantee and not something the entire North must fight for’.

It’s Ser Sandor that finds Sansa on the ramparts, watching as Lord Yohn praises Arya’s footwork and scolds her arrogance, Ser Sandor who confronts her with the truth she doesn’t want to hear.

“It’s time to leave,” he says.

“I know.”

She makes no move away from the railing, doesn’t take her eyes off Arya’s scowl.

“Unless you’re going to hide here,” Ser Sandor says. “Cower in the mountains the way you cowered before Joffrey.”

She whirls on him, anger burning fast and bright inside her heart. “I am not that girl anymore.”

Ser Sandor bares his teeth in a snarl, because he won’t ever be afraid of her, no matter what she says or does. “Prove it.”

Sansa gathers her skirts and goes down the stairs to tell the men they’re leaving. They’ve been ready the past two days, waiting only for her command, and now that she’s given it they spring into action.

The horses are saddled and waiting for her before she has a chance to change her mind, before she can pull back the order and bury it somewhere deep down where it’ll never see the light of day again.

“We’ll take good care of them,” Lady Anya promises, coming out to see the party off

Arya is still sparring, and Tommen is somewhere with a book no doubt, but Sansa doesn’t call for them. She and Arya and Rickon said their goodbyes in Winterfell. There is no point in going through it again.

“I’m sure they’re in good hands,” Sansa says, smiling, polite, when what she wants to ask is if they’ll take better care of her sister than they did her cousin. 

She mounts her horse, and they make it to the gates before a shouted, “Wait!” brings the whole party to a halt.

Sansa turns back to see her sister running towards her, and Sansa grips her horse’s reins tight in her hands, because if Arya begs her to stay, if she tells her not to go -

“You’re forgetting someone,” Arya says.

Sansa can’t speak. She knew she’d never be able to leave Rickon at Casterly Rock, had been grateful when it was her husband in charge of delivering him there while she got custody of Arya, but maybe she sold both herself and her sister short. 

Maybe -

“Nymeria should go with you,” Arya says, and the wolf obediently trots over to stand by Sansa’s horse. The nearby horses are uneasy, but Sansa’s has grown accustomed to Nymeria’s presence.

“She’s your direwolf,” Sansa says. She can’t take her from her sister.

“You rescued her,” Arya says. “Besides, I can protect myself.” She holds her sword up for proof. “You need her more than I do.”

“Oh, Seven Hells,” Ser Sandor groans.

Arya grins. “Besides, someone’s got to pester the Hound now that I’m not around.”

“Indeed,” Sansa says. “Thank you for your gift, sister.”

Arya shrugs, like it’s not a big deal. “Remember to write me letters! I want to know everything that’s happening.”

She runs back to her practice yard, and Sansa turns her attention forward, to the next stop on their journey before they can return home.

~*~

Sansa left Winterfell with only a small fighting force and Ser Sandor, but as she travels through the North, that force grows.

Every Keep she visits, every Lord she greets, every Lady she dines with, she tells the same tale.

Winter is coming. The Winter King’s army is nearly at the Wall. And Castle Black is the only thing standing between the living and the dead.

Some of them believe her, some don’t. All of them find some way to allude to Robb’s gathering of the North with varying degrees of subtlety, and require assurances that this will be nothing like that.

Sansa is not gathering troops for herself, she says over and over. This is no army of the North, she has no aspirations to be King or Queen. 

Winter is coming.

And whether they believe in the Winter King or no, whether they secretly hope for an independent North or no, they answer her call.

And so it’s with a small but respectable army of strong Northern men at her back that she returns to Castle Black.

She makes it before her husband, and it’s strange being back at Castle Black without Tyrion or even Arya at her side. She’s alone here, but she walks through the open spaces and the corridors, Nymeria trotting at her side, and no fear in her eyes. She has faced the worst the North has thrown at her, and she is going to face what lurks Beyond the Wall. The men here don’t scare her, even with their lingering stares and the way some like to sharpen their weapons when she walks by.

She spends her second trip to the Wall observing the men in the practice yard.

Jon had always been a good teacher. Patient with Arya as she demanded to learn everything - short sword, bow, even the great long sword she could hardly lift. He was even more patient with Bran whom fighting skills did not come naturally to.

Sansa can see that that patience has been put to use training the men of the Night’s Watch. It’s easy to distinguish those men - dour faces, something dark lurking at the corners of their eyes - from the wildlings - different clothes, women as well as men - and from the men she’s brought with her - better armor, better weapons but not necessarily better skilled. They are all very different people. And Jon teaches all of them.

He praises the ones who struggle until they can hit the target every time with an arrow even if it doesn’t land in the center, and he challenges those who know what they’re doing until they can hit the center of the target no matter where Jon puts it.

She watches as he pairs the men up for sword training, how he knows which men of the Night’s Watch can spar with a wildling without trying to kill them, how he knows which of the men she brought think they’re too good to practice with criminals, how he finds a way to match the men so they’ve both improved at the end of each bout.

For someone who could easily have gotten a sword through the back courtesy of his own men, Jon understands people well. The role of teacher suits him better than leader.

“Desperation,” Jon tells her when she brings it up - diplomatically, of course - one night. “Men are willing to do quite a lot if it means they might live. What have you done to survive?”

Sansa smiles in response to the question and later, she finds Mance Rayder to ask him the question she can’t ask her brother.

“Will they turn on each other?” Sansa asks, hood up to ward off some of the chill. It’s stronger here at the Wall. “Once the common enemy is gone?”

“That seems like a question for your brother,” Mance says.

“He sees the best in people,” Sansa says. She doesn’t know how, doesn’t understand how all the events of his life have led him to the conclusion that people will be  _ good _ and  _ kind _ if only given the chance. Of course, Sansa once had that innocence, but Cersei and Joffrey ground it out, leaving only a spark of hope that Petyr Baelish quickly squashed.

So maybe she does understand where Jon is coming from. His life has been a series of little betrayals, but he never had the grand one, never knew what it was like to turn to Petyr Baelish as a savior only for him to turn Sansa over to the worst monster yet. 

“And you don’t,” Mance says. It’s not a question.

“There is bad blood between your people and mine,” Sansa says. “When winter has been defeated, I want that to be the end of the fighting. I don’t want to fight another war.”

“I can make no promises for my men,” Mance says, “Just as Jon can make no promises for his.”

Sansa pulls her cloak tighter around herself. “Then I suppose I’ll have to continue to pray for unity and safety.”

“Does it work?” Mance asks. “Praying?”

“We’re here,” Sansa says, “Unified and fighting.”

It’s not really an answer.

Mance nods like it is anyways.

~*~

When she hears that Tyrion has arrived at the Wall, she drops her embroidery and runs through the halls, not caring at the way people stare, at the few sniggers as she rushes to see her husband.

She’s there as Tyrion swings off his horse, and she grabs his face between her hands and kisses him in a display that will embarrass her later, but right now she doesn’t care, because he’s safe and he’s back and she truly believes that there’s nothing they can’t face as long as they’re together.

“Well,” an unfortunately familiar voice says, “you going to greet me like that?”

She turns to glare at Ser Jaime in his gold-plated armor as he dismounts, looking out of place up here in the North. “What are you doing here?”

Jaime just laughs at her hostility and pats the sword at his side. “You said you wanted anyone with Valyrian steel.”

Sansa gaze slides down to the sword, and the breath catches in her throat, because she  _ knows _ that sword. “Did you dig through the tombs for that or order someone to do it for you?”

Jaime looks a touch surprised that she recognized Joffrey’s sword, but he recovers well. “Our father found it prudent to keep one of the last Valyrian blades in his possession and had Joffrey buried with a replica.”

Our father, Sansa thinks, rage bubbling up inside of her, because it’s  _ her _ father’s sword that was melted down to make the sword Ser Jaime wears clipped to his belt. It was  _ her _ father that was beheaded so that the Lannisters could have that blade. It was -

She takes a deep breath. She has not brokered peace between the wildlings and the Night’s Watch only to slay Jaime Lannister the moment he opens his mouth.

“As I’m sure you know, your blade was forged from the blade of my father,” Sansa says, and beside her Tyrion sucks in a quick breath. Ser Jaime’s expression doesn’t falter. “You’ll honor both our Houses by using it to protect the North.”

“Of course,” Ser Jaime says, proving that there is an ounce of self-preservation beneath his ego.

“You must be tired from your journey,” Sansa says. “We’ll arrange a light meal, and you can tell me how you find your future wife.”

Ser Jaime’s eyes narrow, a sign that Sansa’s pushing his patience.

“Perhaps a light meal and we can go over war preparations,” Tyrion says. “We’ve brought supplies with us that may be of some use.”

“And I’m sure the Lord Commander is eager to share with you the progress his men have made in training,” Sansa says. She can torment Ser Jaime later, without an audience. 

~*~

But the torment of Ser Jaime will have to be postponed, because now that they are all here, all the souls in Westeros willing to stand against the Winter, it’s time for some hard truths.

Jon calls a meeting for all the leaders of this motley group, because he is Jon, and there’s some quick negotiating and unfriendly looks as they sort out who exactly qualifies as a leader.

Jon represents the NIght’s Watch, of course, along with Eddison.

“Not Samwell?” Sansa asks. She recalls his kindness and his diligent research.

“He’s gone to Oldtown,” Jon says. “Him and Gilly, and the baby.”

“Ah.” Sansa had wanted her family far from the Wall as well.

“If Castle Black is still standing when he returns,” Jon says ruefully, “he’ll be our new Maester.”

“Not Maester Aemon?”

Jon looks down.

“Oh no!” Sansa remembers Maester Aemon, as well; he was a staunch ally, and a true believer.

“I’m afraid age has finally caught up with him,” Jon says. “We burned his body shortly before you returned.”

“A great loss,” Sansa says.

“He was a good man,” Jon says.

Lady Brienne and, to Sansa’s irritation, Ser Jaime, though perhaps it’s now Lord Jaime, represent the South. She thinks she would rather call him by his familiar name than his new title.

Sansa and Tyrion, of course, represent the North.

The wildlings do seem to have grasped the concept of representation. They all wanted to be a part of the council, and it was only through extensive arguing that Mance Rayder talked them down to one person from each of the clans present. And even so they still outnumber the rest of them almost two to one.

At least, Sansa reflects, she is not the only woman present. Lady Brienne is there of course, and five of the seventeen wildling clans send a woman to the council.

Jon and Eddison carry in stacks of parchment, maps and the little stone pieces used to represent battles.

“I’m going to tell you the truth,” Jon says. “What you choose to tell your men--or women--will fall to your own judgment.”

Well, that isn’t ominous at all. Sansa reaches for Tyrion’s hand.

“We have enough men to staff three castles well,” Jon says. “Or five adequately.”

“How many castles are on the Wall?” a wildling man with elaborate, ritual scarring asks.

“Nineteen,” Jon says grimly.

There’s a silence.

“Do we have five people able to manage the castle and defending force?” Tyrion asks.

Jon looks around at the people in the room. “Maybe?”

“It would be worse than useless to send our forces out without a leader,” Tyrion says.

“I’m not familiar with the Wall,” Jaime says. “Do we need all nineteen castles?”

“They’re spread out all along its length,” Jon says. Eddison rifles through the rolls of parchment and finds one of the whole Wall. They spread it out and pin the corners down with mugs, books, whatever’s at hand. “More or less evenly spaced, when all are staffed there is no part of the Wall that cannot be seen.”

“I hadn’t truly realized how big it is,” Jaime says.

“How would we choose which castles?” Brienne asks. “Even if we could manage five, there would still be huge gaps.”

“Well isn’t that the whole point of the Wall?” one of the wildling women asks. “So you can hide behind it?”

“We could seal the tunnels,” Jon says. “That’s already been done everywhere except Castle Black, when each castle was abandoned, to, er-”

“Keep us out,” Mance Rayder says.

“Well, that’s not something we need to do,” Jon says. “Except here. We haven’t decided if it makes more sense to leave the tunnels open so we can send our forces out to meet the Winter King’s army, or if we should seal it up and hope.”

“Isn’t there any way to rappel down the Wall, and fall on them that way?” Jaime asks.

Tyrion snorts. “If you’d stood on top of the Wall, you wouldn’t have to ask that. But feel free, brother.”

“We are not afraid to climb the Wall,” a wildling man says.

“You might have to,” Jon says. “When, uh, the wildlings attacked just recently, we had to destroy the lift. The substitute we cobbled together has, er, frozen. There isn’t actually any convenient way to get to the top of the Wall right now.”

They absorb this in silence.

“What happened to Stannis’s siege equipment?” Tyrion asks. “There might be some ladders, there, that can be strapped together and lifted up. Wood, at least.”

“I’ll send out a party,” Jon says. “I assume it’s all just sitting at the docks, still. I’m told Lady Melisandre was very... persuasive… that it should be left strictly alone.

“My father sent some gifts,” Jaime says. “I think as a sort of apology for not sending more men.”

“I was hoping for more men,” Jon says.

“Yes, well, he’s reaching out to Dorne and actually getting somewhere for the first time since the disaster with the Mountain and the Mad King, and there are some troubling rumors about the Targaryen girl, so he wants to keep a substantial force in the capital.”

Jon stares. “Does he know what’s happening here? What does any of that have to do with the undead?”

“Let me put it this way,” Jaime says. “If, by some miracle, we turn back the Winter King’s horde, we  _ won’t _ be stabbed in the back by Dorne, or have an up close and personal encounter with dragonfire.”

“Would dragonfire work against these undead, then?” one of the wildling men asks.

“There’s only three dragons in the whole world, as far as we know,” Tyrion says. “And they’re all the way across the Narrow Sea, in the hands of someone who wants to conquer Westeros. I think we’ll have to make our own way, without the dragons.”

“We don’t want to borrow more trouble,” Sansa says.

Jon sighs. “Well, how about these gifts, then?”

“I’ve brought six carts full of dragonglass, and more on the way,” Jaime says.

“Well, that’s a bit of good news at least,” Jon says, sitting up. “Eddison, set the men to making arrowheads. Whatever they’re doing, tell them to stop doing it and make arrows.” He pauses. “Except the cooks.”

“Lady Brienne and myself both have Valyrian steel swords,” Jaime says. “And we brought one extra.”

“So that’s now… four,” Mance Rayder says. “Great.”

“This one should be yours,” Jon says. “That is, if you have no objections, Lord Jaime.”

He opens his mouth.

Brienne kicks him under the table. “He has no objections,” she says. “And it isn’t his, anyway.”

“Fine,” Jaime grumbles, with ill-grace.

“We have also brought the Crown’s remaining supply of wildfire,” Tyrion says. “And the alchemist who makes it. It’s supposed to burn like dragonfire.” He spreads his hands. “It certainly did a number on Stannis’s fleet.”

“Fire is our best weapon,” Jon says. “Dragonglass and Valyrian steel don’t seem to affect the undead any more than anything else does; only fire stops them. The White Walkers are susceptible to our special weapons, but they are cursed fast and can generate snowstorms that, among other things, put out fires.”

The council succumbs to gloomy silence.

“Well,” Sansa says, clapping her hands sharply. “We know what we have, let’s make use of it. The wildfire will be of much more use from the top of the Wall, as will our archers, so our next task should be to find a reliable way up.”

“Yes,” Jon says, seizing on this plan. “And we need to build up our stores, and train as much as we can. More than anything, the undead army is frightening. We must have faith in ourselves, and the Seven. Dismissed.”

Sansa and Tyrion linger as the others file out, looking grim but not completely without hope.

“Is there truly nothing else that will hold them back?” Sansa asks, when they’re finally alone.

Jon’s shoulders sag. “Sam searched through every scrap of lore before he left. The only other thing he could find about them is that, for some reason, they are unable to cross running water. That’s why they don’t simply go around the Wall.”

“If we seal all the tunnels,” Tyrion says, “can we just… sit here? Abandon all the land Beyond the Wall?”

“And resign ourselves to eternal winter?” Sansa asks. “Ice and snow ride ahead of his army.”

“Also, I’m not sure you understand the sheer scale we’re talking about here,” Jon says. “I saw the army, when Mance and I took a group to try and bring the rest of the wildlings back to the Wall. It was so vast, you couldn’t see the snow in any direction. And as we sailed away, every wildling and brother who fell in battle, the White Walkers lifted their hands and they rose up and joined the horde. A hundred hundred thousand and more.”

“Oh,” Tyrion says, looking ill.

“Mance thinks that they’ll just run at the Wall, and the ones in front will be crushed, and the others will climb up their backs, and on and on until they make a path for themselves to climb over the Wall. Once they reach the top, they can just jump down. It’s what they did at the wildling settlements, though on a much smaller scale of course.”

Sansa feels ill herself.

“If even a single White Walker gets through, that’s enough to build a whole new army on this side of the Wall,” Jon says. The words drop ominously into the silence.

“Well,” Sansa says, “then we won’t let any get through.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Creative use of magic : ) We haven't read the books, and we've stopped keeping up with the TV show so apologies if our magic system doesn't line up with canon.
> 
> All that's left after this chapter is the epilogue. Can't believe this adventure is almost over.

They make their arrows, and improvise a horribly unsafe looking set of ladders as they try to rebuild the lift, and ride to every corner of the North at the alchemist’s barked orders, searching for his powders and potions.

Sansa assists the cooks, confers with the quartermaster, and sews until her fingers cramp. She speaks words of encouragement, mediates disagreements, lets them see that she is unafraid, unbowed. 

But she is afraid.

“There is still time for you to ride South,” Tyrion says, when she gives into the shakes, alone in their room. “Arya would take you in a second, or my father. Hell, you could sail across the sea to the dragons.”

“Am I not Wardenness of the North?” she asks, indignation giving her strength. “My place is here.”

He gently strokes her cheek. “I would have you safe, my wife.”

“We’re none of us safe, if we don’t turn back the winter,” she reminds him, leaning into his touch.

“Yes, well, love isn’t known for being rational,” he says.

She searches his face, but he’s looking at the furs, the wall, anywhere but her. “Say that again?”

He huffs, and yes, he’s definitely blushing now. “I love you, Sansa, and I don’t want to lose you.”

She hugs him, fiercely. “And you think I want to lose you? To lose my brothers, my sister, our children? I love them, and I love you, and I will stand here at the Wall and fight the whole army with my bare hands if I have to.”

“I should never have doubted you,” Tyrion says. “Forgive me, my love.” 

~*~

The Winter King comes.

The lift is rebuilt. Well, it functions. Usually.

When the sentries sound the alarm, the council is the first to the top. After that, there’s a schedule for the archers. Tyrion worked it out, so Sansa is certain the transport will be accomplished with maximum efficiency.

Jaime is in charge of the knights, waiting in the tunnel they decided to leave open for now. Brienne is at his side. They have drilled endlessly in the agreed-upon strategy of fight, fall back, pour wildfire on the bodies, fight again.

Men and women stand at the ready atop the wall, which is lined with lit torches, so they can shoot flaming arrows into the horde. Quivers of the precious dragonglass arrows are stowed beside the best archers. The wildfire is stored as far from the torches as possible while still also being on the top of the wall, and a number of brave souls have been pressed into apprenticeship by the alchemist and are responsible for using it.

They’re as ready as they’ll ever be.

Sansa can only hope that it will be enough.

She is allowed a spot at the top of the Wall, ostensibly because it gives her a good vantage point and maybe she’ll think of a clever idea, but mostly, she suspects, because it will be the last place to be overrun if the Wall is breached.

She doesn’t protest too much; perhaps she  _ will _ have a clever idea.

Jon is up here somewhere, in command of the defense at the top of the Wall, but Tyrion is below. None of the wildlings, and few of the Night’s Watch, will listen to Jaime, and he won’t listen to anyone else, so Tyrion is in command of the defense at the base of the Wall. Mance isn’t officially in command of anything, but unofficially he’s supposed to keep the wildlings from breaking and running, or stabbing their allies in the back.

There’s a Stark on the Wall, she thinks, even as the air goes impossibly cold, and the nearly incomprehensible enormity of the Winter King’s army begins to break out of the trees. And winter is here.

“Wait until you have a clear shot,” Jon says, stolidly refusing to panic. “Don’t waste arrows.”

~*~

Battle, Sansa has discovered, warming her fingers by the fire that night, is messy. It always seemed so orderly, when it was just stone blocks on a map.

The reality is total chaos.

Tyrion joins her. “I hear you’re a hero,” he says.

“Someone else would have thought of it,” she says, blushing.

“Maybe. But you were the one who did.”

“Jon had warned me that the undead might try to… climb atop one another. I think the men were just… startled.”

“Well, I heard that you threw a cache of wildfire right in an undead’s face, and ordered the men to pour out the rest, melting the whole pile.”

“I suppose I did help, a bit,” she says, grinning. “We certainly surprised the Winter King. I thought they would never stop coming, but it seems he wants to puzzle over our strong defense.”

“We held them back at the tunnel, as well,” Tyrion says.

Sansa sobers. “And what were our losses?”

“Not as bad as they could have been. Jaime is a better leader than he believes himself to be, and that Brienne was just unstoppable. But of course they had to leave the wounded when they rode for cover, so as many were killed in our own counterattacks as by enemy. It doesn’t give the ground forces much motivation.”

“We must have killed thousands, more even, and I can’t even see the difference,” Sansa admits.

“Our losses were fewer, but every one counts when we are so outnumbered,” Tyrion says. “And men have to sleep sometime.”

“And we’re out of wildfire,” Sansa says. “As soon as the Winter King realizes, he’ll be relentless.”

They huddle together against the cold.

“Then I hope, my love, that you’ll pull off another miracle.”

~*~

The Winter King attacks again before dawn. What use do the dead have for light, or eyes?

It catches them in their beds, and there’s a mad scramble, nothing like the controlled mayhem of yesterday.

Sansa finds her same spot on the Wall, what Jon tells her is the exact midpoint of the entire Wall, and does what she can to encourage the archers.

She catches herself wishing that she’d listened to Arya, and that she knew how to bend a bow. The ground itself seems to be moving, the enemy’s numbers are so vast, so there’s no real need to aim, not unless you’re wielding dragonglass.

Whatever else he is, the Winter King isn’t stupid, and he quickly realizes that they have no more wildfire.

Three different stacks of undead begin all along the Wall.

The archers try to light them up, but the enemy is bones and frozen flesh, and doesn’t burn well.

“I thought they would catch like tinder,” Jon shouts in her ear. 

That’s the other thing about battle. It’s very  _ loud _ .

“Why’s that?” she shouts back.

“I killed one in Castle Black, once. Burned my hand when I threw the lantern at it.”

She wants to smack him. So she does.

“Ow!”

“Idiot! Do you think that might have been the lantern oil?”

He blinks. “I’m an idiot.”

A raven crows its agreement.

She shakes her head, letting him command the archers, and goes to organize the delivery of every drop of lantern oil within a day’s ride, and anything else flammable they can think of. Could they try burning hay? That’s how bigger fires start in barns, right?

While the boys too young to fight scramble to obey her orders, the undead get closer. Jon puts down his bow and unsheathes his sword, the only Valyrian steel on the whole top of the Wall.

The raven’s cry sounds again, much closer.

A message from below? Why couldn’t they just send it up with one of the boys?

The raven lands, a little clumsy, right in front of Sansa. It’s the biggest raven she’s ever seen.

It also has three eyes.

What new foe have the Seven sent now?

The raven… twists, the air around it distorting, and it almost seems to grow, stretching and changing its shape until…

“Bran!?” Sansa cries, as her last missing brother appears where the raven was perched.

He collapses, his legs unable to support him, and she dives to catch him.

They both fall, but at least she falls on the bottom, and is able to cushion him a little.

She hugs him, fiercely. “Bran!”

“Sansa,” he says, and hugs her back.

There’s something… not quite right about his tone. Like he’s trying to sound like he’s happy, more than he actually is.

She pulls back to look at his face.

He seems… older, somehow, more than the intervening years can explain. There’s a wisdom in his eyes, and more than anything else it reminds her of Maester Luwin, and Maester Aemon.

Where has her little brother been, to have changed this much?

Not to mention the whole raven thing.

She releases him, and sits back against the ice.

“Where have you been?” she asks. “What’s happened to you?”

“There’s power in the North,” he says, and she is suddenly and unsettlingly reminded of Melisandre. “I thought my life was over when I lost my legs and couldn’t climb anymore, but now I’ve learned to fly.”

She wants to think he’s crazy, but, well, she has eyes. She can’t explain what she just saw.

“I found the First Tree,” he says. “Like Nora used to tell us, do you remember?”

“I remember.”

“There was a man there, the spirit of the tree. He knows about Winter, about the White Walkers, and he knows how to stop them. He stopped them before, a thousand years ago.”

Sansa’s breath catches. “And… will he stop them now?”

Bran shakes his head. “He’s old, now. Tired.”

A thousand years is a long time, Sansa supposes, even for a tree.

“His power has shrunk to just his own roots, and dead walk freely through his forests.”

Sansa is disappointed. She has always loved the old stories, maybe not as much as Bran, but enough. How unfair that the Winter King is as monstrous as the tales tell, and the First Tree’s great power is nothing.

“Don’t worry,” Bran says. “He’s taught me what to do.”

“He’s what?” Sansa asks.

“Bran!” Jon calls, dropping to his knees beside them. “Where- How- ?”

Sansa doesn’t really want to be the one to say that he turned into a bird and flew here.

“Help me up,” Bran says.

Jon takes one side, and Sansa takes the other, and together they get him vertical, though a little lop-sided because Sansa is tall, but not as tall as Jon.

A twisted staff is at Bran’s feet. Sansa doesn’t remember seeing that before. And how would a bird, even a large bird, have carried it?

“What’s going on?” Jon asks her, behind Bran’s head.

Sansa shrugs. “Hopefully something good.”

Jon considers. “I suppose we can’t make our situation worse.”

“I have to be in the middle,” Bran says. “The very center of the Wall.”

Jon and Sansa obligingly shuffle a few feet to the side.

“I need my staff.”

That requires a little more maneuvering. Jon gets his foot under it and catches it in his hand on the third try, but of course both Bran’s hands are slung over their shoulders, not free to hold it. In the end, Jon keeps an arm over his shoulders, supporting most of Bran’s weight, and Sansa holds his waist on the other side, leaving one arm free.

Bran raises his staff.

“Is it too late to insist I know what he intends to do before he does it?” Jon asks.

Sansa peers up at Bran’s face. His eyes are entirely white. “I think so,” she says.

Bran brings the staff down.

Sansa doesn’t know what she expected. A dozen crows to burst out. A giant tree to grow. All the White Walkers to spontaneously fall over dead.

What happens is nothing.

She blinks.

Jon blinks.

The staff begins to glow faintly, where it touches the ice.

“So this is magic, then?” Jon asks.

The light grows brighter. And warmer.

Here in the middle of the Wall, with the Winter King marching, it suddenly feels like a fine spring day.

“Is this a good thing?” Jon asks.

Men are stopping to stare.

The light gets brighter and warmer still.

Sansa is starting to sweat inside her furs.

There’s an ominous cracking sound, not unlike ice breaking.

“Uh oh,” Jon says.

Heads are turning up and down the Wall now, and the Wall…

It’s  _ melting _ .

“Bran,” Sansa says. “Bran!”

He doesn’t respond, and the light keeps getting brighter and warmer.

“Tell everyone to get out!” Jon yells to the boys on the lift. “Get down there and tell them to get out!”

“The Wall is seven hundred feet high,” Sansa says. “It’s stood for a thousand years.”

It shakes under their feet.

Men fall to their knees, pray to the god of their choice. They’ve completely forgotten that they’re supposed to be in a battle just now.

“Grab the arrows!” Jon shouts. “Don’t lose the dragonglass!”

A few people blink at him stupidly.

“Pick up the damn quivers, that’s an order!” he bellows.

That gets them moving.

“Sorry,” he tells Sansa. “I didn’t mean to offend you.”

Even with everything that’s happening, she finds time to laugh. 

The Wall is melting in earnest now, in defiance of all logic. If the light were hot enough to melt the Wall, surely they would all be incinerated. And the Wall isn’t  _ only _ ice, and where did the light, or Bran, even come from?

There’s no point in asking these questions, no answer is forthcoming, and they have other things to worry about.

“How are  _ we _ going to get off the Wall?” Sansa asks, softly, for Jon’s ears alone.

“Well,” he says. “As it melts, it will get closer to the ground. Then we jump.”

She gives him an incredulous look.

But the joke’s on her, because that’s what they do.

~*~

“Well,” Brienne says.

“Yep,” Jaime says.

“I don’t understand what just happened,” Bronn says.

Sansa shrugs. “No one understands what just happened.”

The Wall is gone. Castle Black is gone.

Where the Wall used to be, is the wildest river Sansa has ever seen. And the strangest.

Exactly where Bran had been standing, there is a circle of calm about two feet in diameter. To the west, it flows west, and to the east, it flows east.

Sansa is not an expert, but she does not think that is how rivers are supposed to work.

The Winter King seems as confused as they are. He’s just standing on the other bank, watching. He threw a few of the dead into the river, and they were swept away by the current. He summoned his winter power, but the river resolutely refused to freeze.

So now he’s watching.

On Sansa’s side of the river, people are mostly praying.

She doesn’t blame them.

“We seem to have saved most of the food,” Tyrion says, returning to Sansa’s side. “The wildlings have good instincts, and they grabbed everything that wasn’t nailed down and fled when the walls started melting. No tents, though.”

Sansa is amazed at how easily he’s moved past this… this  _ miracle _ .

“How did your people do with the dragonglass?” he asks Jon.

“I think we got most of it,” Jon says. “I should start organizing… things. We’ll need some kind of, shelter?”

“My people can help with that,” Mance Rayder says. He’s as practical as Tyrion. “We know a few tricks for surviving in the snow.”

“And we should send some people for supplies,” Jon says. “Tents.”

“We need to get organized,” Tyrion says. “Jaime, stop sitting around and do something useful.”

“Hey!”

~*~

Tyrion finds her in their tent a few days later. 

Bran is also here. He seems to be sleeping, and while it doesn’t seem to be a natural sleep, given that it’s been days, compared to some of the other things he was doing, it doesn’t seem particularly  _ un _ natural, either.

“Still nothing?” he asks.

“He isn’t getting weaker,” she says. “The healer is baffled.”

They’d decided not to tell everyone that Bran melted the Wall. It’s easier that way.

She gives Bran’s hand one last pat, then rises to join her husband. “What news?”

“The river still keeps our two armies separate, but the cold is getting worse. Ignoring each other doesn’t seem to be a viable long-term solution.”

Sansa sighs. Of course it couldn’t be that easy. “Will we try to sail around, then?”

“It’s a long ride to the coast, and so far the Winter King does not seem inclined to stand at the shore while we shoot fire at him. He certainly drew out of longbow range quickly enough.” Now it’s Tyrion’s turn to sigh. “We have two trebuchets, courtesy of Stannis, which fortunately wouldn’t fit into the Castle and didn’t get washed away.”

Sansa tries to imagine how long it would take to destroy that entire horde, two shots at a time.

“Quite,” Tyrion says, reading her face. “Some form of sally will be obviously be called for. You can imagine how eager the men are to try that.”

“Can  _ we _ get across the river?” she asks.

“Jon has thought of a design for a bridge, quite ingenious, really, with the main support in that circle of stillness.”

She forgives him the slight disbelief in his voice. Jon and Tyrion are clever in entirely different ways.

“The current plan is to use the trebuchets and a bit of alchemical magic to form a circle of fire, then have our army use it as cover for an advance.”

Sansa thinks about that. “Can that work?”

He shrugs. “No one’s come up with something better.”

~*~

Three days later, they still haven’t thought of something better, and messengers from Winterfell say that all the water has frozen, and the extreme cold spreads further every day.

The river, improbably, is still flowing as swiftly as ever.

“You’ll be managing the camp,” Tyrion says, like Sansa is going to snatch up a sword and try to join the army.

Obviously she’s not going to do that. What use would she be in the swordfight?

That does not, however, mean she understands why  _ Tyrion _ is going.

“The men are afraid,” he says. “I can’t just hang back and wish them luck. Besides. I would be ashamed, not to do my part.”

Men, she thinks. She really thought her husband more sensible than all that.

“I suppose,” she concedes. “Grudgingly. I will be extremely vexed with you if you die.”

He manages a small laugh. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Then, because she can’t keep up the facade, she hugs him tightly.

He hugs her back just as fiercely.

“This is a terrible idea,” she says.

“I won’t argue.”

“For once.”

They stay that way for entirely too short a time, then he pats her shoulder briskly. “Sansa. I have to go.”

“I love you,” she says. “Come back.”

“I love you, too,” he says.

But he doesn’t promise to return.

~*~

Sansa isn’t the only one left behind, but it’s a close thing.

Jon and Mance have organized a truly impressive campaign, she’s told. From the moment the bridge goes down--through a system of ropes and pulleys she doesn’t pretend to understand--there will be a wave of men with torches, then a wave of archers, then more torches, and so on. In between are their few soldiers armed with Valyrian steel, mounted.

Only those few of the horses could be coaxed anywhere near the river, and Sansa doesn’t blame them one bit.

The main strategy is to keep the fires burning, and to try to avoid dropping any of the flaming ammunition among their own troops. A contingent remains on this side of the bridge, ready to send it into the river at the first sign of enemy encroachment.

This is going to end in disaster. If only more men answered the call, if only they had more weapons, more wildfire, just more.

Sansa stands at the river’s edge, hands clenched in her heavy wool skirts, and tries to see what’s happening. Mostly what she sees is snow.

An alarm goes up, louder even than the great siege engines, and it takes her a moment to realize it’s coming from her side of the river.

Once she does, she hurries to see what new threat has appeared.

The forces that are supposed to be watching the bridge have surrounded a small party on horseback. All the leaders in the camp are on the other side of the river, fighting, and the men can’t seem to decide what to do with their prisoners.

How fortunate for them that Sansa is here.

“What is going on?” she asks, her authority somewhat diminished by the way her teeth chatter in the cold.

The men part, and she sees that the lead rider hasn’t bothered with a hood, even with the extreme temperatures and the driving snow.

It’s Melisandre.

“I thought I told you to leave,” Sansa says.

“I prayed to the Lord of Light for guidance,” Melisandre says. “And his words guided me here.”

There’s a murmur of agreement from the bundles of fur on horseback accompanying her.

“And what are you planning to do?” Sansa asks, suspicious. “I believe I’ve made my position on sacrificing children clear.”

“The Lord of Light has asked only for our own lives,” Melisandre assures her.

The murmurs don’t seem to be as fervent this time.

Sansa considers. Melisandre has real power. She, of all people, is in a position to know that. And really, could their situation get any worse?

“Very well,” she says. “Let them through.”

~*~

Sansa misses the whole thing. She can’t see anything but snow from their camp. Tyrion tells her later that Melisandre and her people walked right into the weakening circle of flame. They caught fire, of course, and then they kept walking.

Everywhere they went, the flame spread, until the whole army of undead, the forest, even the snow itself, according to some of the men, burned and burned.

Their army had to hasten back across the bridge to escape the inferno.

It burned for three days and three nights, and when Jon led a group to hunt down the White Walkers, they encountered nothing but devastation.

They think they found them all, not least because, when they returned, they brought spring with them.

Melisandre and her people will be honored for their sacrifice. With them safely dead, Sansa is willing to leave it at that.

Bran wakes up when the fire finally dies down, eyes pure white and nothing on his mind but to seek out the First Tree, see if it survived, honor its life if it hasn’t. Sansa isn’t sure what that means, but she lets him go. Her own journey has left her a very different person, so she will try her best to understand that Bran has to follow his own path.

Her husband comes back, scratched and reeking of soot, but alive.

And… winter is over. Sansa can hardly believe it.

Jon looks like she feels.

“What will you do now?” she asks.

He shrugs. “Rebuild Castle Black, I suppose. The Night’s Watch is mostly dead, now, but it’s a different kind of watch we need here. This is the only bridge, and wildlings aren’t much for the sea. There will be major traffic here. Someone has to make sure everyone keeps getting along.”

“It sounds perfect,” Sansa says. She can imagine Jon spending the rest of his life trying to help everyone be friends.

“You are quite settled, then?” Tyrion asks.

Sansa looks at her husband. There’s something suspicious about the bland neutrality of his expression.

“Aye,” Jon says, oblivious. He doesn’t know Tyrion as well as she does.

“I have something for you,” Tyrion says, and he hands Jon a scroll but he looks at Sansa.

She hadn’t thought anything could dampen her mood this day, but she’s starting to get nervous.

Jon takes half an eternity to open the scroll and read it.

“What is this?” he says, tight and tense.

Sansa tries not to panic.

“When my father’s men liberated the Twins, they released your mother’s younger brother, Lord Edmure, from the dungeon. Apparently, this was your brother Robb’s last order, and he never had the chance to disseminate it.”

Now Sansa  _ has _ to see. She all but snatches the scroll from Jon’s hand.

Robb legitimized him, naming him Jon Stark, heir to Winterfell.

The scroll falls from her numb hands.

Jon is frozen, his face a complicated mix of emotions.

Tyrion takes her hand. “All is well, Sansa. This is good news.”

Jon finds his voice. “You waited to give this to me until you knew I had plans of my own, and no intention to return to Winterfell,” he accuses.

Tyrion shrugs. “Of course. I considered simply altering it, but this is better.”

There’s a moment where it seems that Jon is going to punch him, but then he hugs him instead.

“Yes, yes,” Tyrion says, patting him gingerly. “I’m just the messenger.”

Jon is crying.

Sansa thought she had known how much Jon wanted to be a Stark in truth, but obviously she hadn’t understood at all.

Tyrion grows impatient with Jon’s crying on him and extracts himself, then leaves.

Sansa goes up to Jon and bumps his shoulder with hers. “Well, what are we Starks to do, now?”

Jon gives her the most brilliant smile she’s ever seen from him. “How do you mean? You have Winterfell to defend, and I have Castle Black, and the wildlings.”

She smiles. “Yes, but from what? Winter is behind us now. It no longer comes.”

“We can’t know that, not for sure,” he says, suddenly serious. “There’s no way to know how many White Walkers there were.”

“None who were at the Wall will ever forget what happened here,” Sansa says. “Nor will their children, or their children’s children. The North remembers.”

“I like it,” Jon says. “Maybe you should change the family words.”

“Maybe I will.”


	8. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it, folks! Thanks so much for all your lovely comments, and I hope you enjoyed reading the story as much as we enjoyed writing it! -TA
> 
> This was our first collaboration and our first GoT story so thank you for coming along on this journey with us. It was an absolute blast to write and we appreciate all the support we got from ya'll along the way. -KC

“Stay with me,” Sansa says, reaching out an arm to bar Lyanna from scampering off to investigate the colorful kiosks lining the walkways of the capital. It’s her first time bringing her whole family to King’s Landing, and she wishes it was for a more happy occasion, but the North has required her attention and no amount of pleading from Margaery could make Sansa leave the home she’d fought so hard to protect.

The death of Tywin Lannister is one of the few things that could draw Sansa out of the North.

He is as demanding in death as he was in life.

“But Mother,” Lyanna says. “Look at the  _ scarves _ .”

Lyanna is Sansa’s third child, and the only one who enjoys needlework as much as Sansa does. Jaime is proficient, and she’ll attend her sewing lessons because she thinks it’s something a lady should know, but she doesn’t enjoy creating dresses or tunics that way her mother or sister do.

Nymeria, Sansa’s youngest child, refused to learn even the most basic of stitching until Tyrion asked how she proposed to mend her clothes when she was a roaming knight.

Now Nymeria can sew functionally, but she’ll never make anything pretty. Sansa supposes this is what she gets for naming her child after a direwolf.

“Can we get a sword while we’re here?” Nymeria asks. “My name day is coming up soon.”

“Not  _ that _ soon,” Bran says.

It had been Tyrion who suggested naming their fourth child and second boy after Sansa’s brother. Bran had wandered out into the charred remains of the land beyond the Wall, and he never returned. All Sansa knows is that only a few days after he left, life returned to the land.

Out of ash and bone, grass began to grow and saplings that will one day replace the forests lost to the fire. The wildings were able to cross the bridge to their land, with seed crops and some livestock, because farming will be their only option until animals return to the land as well.

It’s been fifteen years since winter was turned back, and Jon’s latest letter told her that the people on both sides of the river are thriving. She’ll have to make another visit out to the new Castle Black soon. All trade between the North and North of the Wall is run through the castle, and Jon has even set up a school for bastard children. Many of them, once they have learned to fight and hunt and farm, cross over the bridge to live among the free folk.

“We’re not here to celebrate,” Jaime reminds her siblings, and she looks over at Eddard as if to say  _ you’re the eldest, why aren’t you scolding them _ .

“ _ You _ are,” Nymeria mutters, the mulish set of her mouth reminding Sansa of Arya. 

It’s true that their visits to King’s Landing are so rare that Sansa will be leaving Jaime here, to live with Margaery and her household until it’s time for Jaime and Briar to be wed. It won’t surprise Sansa if in another year she’ll make the trek to King’s Landing again, but for a much happier affair.

“Lord Tywin was our grandfather,” Eddard says. “Show some respect.”

He holds the gruff face until Jaime nods, satisfied, and turns her attention elsewhere. Once she’s no longer looking, his face softens and he gives Nymeria a smile.

Sansa looks over at her husband, because as...complicated a relationship Tyrion and Tywin had, Tywin was still his father. Tyrion doesn’t show that he’s affected by the children’s careless talk, but he hasn’t said anything on the subject since they got the raven and he said, “Peacefully in his sleep? If any man didn’t deserve it -” before cutting himself off and going to have a drink.

It was the first time Sansa’s seen her husband drunk since - well, since Eddard was born. He showed no signs of returning to past habits, merely waking up the next morning grumpy and with bloodshot eyes to begin making preparations for their trip.

“It will be good to see your brother again,” Sansa says, taking her husband’s arm. 

“Don’t you mean  _ our _ brother?” Tyrion asks, a hint of his usual smile showing.

“Whether he’s my brother or not depends on the mood he’s in when we see him,” Sansa says.

“We’re going to see my sister as well,” Tyrion says.

“Mm,” Sansa agrees, “I wonder if I’ll get another lecture on Arya’s ‘deplorable’ upbringing.”

Arya doesn’t keep her hatred of Cersei a secret, she’s gained no subtlely as she’s aged, but she’s worked out an agreement with Tommen where Arya will go on a two week hunt whenever Cersei is scheduled to visit so that he can see his mother, and Arya can stab things. Things that aren’t Cersei. 

One time, Cersei lingered, and Arya attempted to have her escorted out of the Eyrie by force. 

“She doesn’t have much high ground there,” Tyrion says, “Or has she already forgotten what a monster Joffrey became under her loving care?”

“Tommen turned out well,” Sansa says, because she believes in giving credit where credit is due. “And from what I’ve seen of Myrcella, she’s grown into a fine young lady.”

“Myrcella’s been living in Dorne most of her life,” Tyrion points out. “I’d say they had more influence on her than my sister did. There’s no need to be polite, I know you despise Cersei as much as I do.”

Out of habit, Sansa glances around the streets, but this is a different King’s Landing than the one she was imprisoned in. There  _ are _ colorful scarves being sold by most street vendors, fine fabrics that are proof of how good trade negotiations are with Dorne. There are trinkets from across the Narrow Sea and even pelts from the North for southerners who think it quaint to have a skinned bear for a rug.

Sansa thinks it’s a waste of good fur, putting it down for people to step on instead of making a cloak, but the trade with the capital is good for her land, and if the capital wants to waste what they buy; well, that’s their choice.

“Mother  _ look _ ,” Lyanna says, reaching out to touch a dress hanging from a stall before yanking her hand back at a look from the seller.

It’s a beautiful sky blue dress, clearly an imitation of one of Margaery’s. There is a distinct Highgarden feel to the clothing style, both sold and worn, in King’s Landing, but Sansa would expect nothing else.

“Not very practical for the North,” Nymeria says. “You’d freeze with all those holes cut out.”

“You’re so lucky,” Lyanna tells Jaime. “You’re going to live in King’s Landing and get to wear the most fashionable clothes. Mother, can I marry someone who lives someplace warm?”

Tyrion chuckles and leaves Sansa to field that question.

~*~

“Have you noticed that you only visit me when someone has died?” Margaery asks.

She and Sansa are taking tea in the garden, ostensibly chaperoning for Jaime and Briar as they take a turn through the rose bushes. Sansa’s reminded of the times she’s sat with Margaery here before, but neither of them are girls anymore and neither of them are afraid.

They both have married well and secured a home for themselves, and now they get to sit and enjoy the fruits of their labor while they watch their children play. 

“It is a long way from Winterfell to King’s Landing,” Sansa says. “And even though the war is done, there is a lot of cleanup to be done after a war.”

Margaery rolls her eyes, a hint of Lady Olenna in her disregard for social niceties. “Who do you consider important enough that you’d return for their funeral?”

Sansa recognizes that glint in Margaery’s eye. It means nothing good. “You can’t start killing people in the capital just to lure me here.”

“I’m Queen Mother,” she says. “I can do anything I want. If you’re worried about the people of King’s Landing, you could make regular trips here. You will, of course, now that little Jaime will be living here, yes?”

Jaime isn’t little, a few years older than Sansa when she came to the capital for the first time. And she’s not here as a prisoner, isn’t afraid of her future husband or future mother-by-law. Sansa’s gaze finds her daughter, and she smiles as she sees Briar present Jaime with one of the roses from the garden. 

Jaime’s cheeks turn as pink as the rose, and she looks away for a moment before touching the back of Briar’s hand, a thank you that has Briar looking pleased.

“I hope my next visit will be for a marriage, not a funeral,” Sansa says.

“They do look happy,” Margaery agrees. “Always nice when marriage works out like that.”

They don’t talk about Margaery’s marriage to Joffrey even though Sansa’s one of the few people who would understand. Once Joffrey died, Margaery mourned as she was expected and then put him behind her. 

With the way Margaery has changed the city, making it more welcoming, forcing the city to support its young and its elderly, the way she’s brought peace, it would surprise Sansa if many people even remember their former king.

“Of course, there are benefits to a marriage not working out,” Margaery says.

There’s a new glint in Margaery’s eye, the kind that means she’s about to try and embarrass Sansa by over sharing personal information.

“I’d heard you’d taken a consort,” Sansa says. “If you’d married then perhaps I would’ve been here sooner.”

“Neither of us wanted marriage,” Margaery says. “I don’t want to risk Briar’s birthright, and Oberyn didn’t want to be tied down. By ceremony at least.” Margaery winks.

Sansa, after all these years and five children of her own, still blushes.

“He’s a good lover,” Margaery says, “and the Dornish have different concepts of bastard children than we do. It’s the perfect match, really. He’s been sailing somewhere or other for the past few months, but I’m sure he’ll be back in time for the funeral. I think he’s made it his personal mission to attend every Lannister funeral he can.”

“Oh?” Sansa asks.

“Not your family’s of course,” Margaery says, like Sansa’s silly to even think it. “Relations with Dorne are much improved, but he’s got revenge in his blood, and that’s hard to get out. But he seems to like Tyrion, and I’ve heard him express interest in that strange river you have up there. Maybe he’ll go back to Winterfell with you.”

“The Jojen,” Sansa says. “It’s the Jojen River.”

It had been the one thing Bran insisted on before leaving. He told her the story of Jojen, the boy that took Bran on his journey even though the Sight told him it would kill him. Bran told her the river was made possible by the sacrifice of the men on the wall and it was only fitting to name it after another person who made a great sacrifice.

Sansa’s brother possessed magic that allowed him to melt a towering wall of ice. She’s pretty sure she would’ve done anything he asked.

“You Northerners and your names,” Margaery says. 

“It’s how we tell our history,” Sansa says, “Names are important.”

When tea is over, Sansa walks Jaime back to their quarters. Her daughter’s quiet, but like she’s thinking, not like she had a miserable time.

“He’s a nice boy,” Jaime says once they’re out of the gardens and in the palace proper. “Very polite.”

“As kings should be,” Sansa agrees.

“Am I really going to be his queen?”

“Yes,” Sansa says. “And he will love you as men are to love their wives.”

When they depart for Winterfell, Jaime will stay behind, but it won’t be like when Sansa was left in King’s Landing. Briar is kind, and Margaery is no Cersei. Jaime will be looked after, and when she marries Briar she’ll have the fairytale Sansa always thought she wanted.

“Like you and Father?” Jaime asks.

“Yes,” Sansa says. “Just like that.”

~*~

After the ceremony, everyone of importance is given the opportunity to pay their respects. Margaery and Briar are the first to walk by Tywin, and Margaery touches her hand briefly to Tywin’s shoulder. She’d made a speech earlier, about his service to the Crown as Hand of the King, how he brought peace to the realm and how everyone in the city owed him a great debt, but Sansa thinks that small gesture speaks louder than her whole speech.

Jaime and his family are next, Lady Selyse and their son trailing after Jaime, giving him space as he looks down at his father. Sansa knows that Tywin wasn’t strict only with Tyrion, that he was tough on all of his children, and there is a range of emotion on Jaime’s face as he looks at his father for the last time.

Sansa tries not to think of how she mourned for her own father, but back in King’s Landing - it’s impossible to avoid some memories. She didn’t get a moment of public grief like Tywin’s children get, nor did she get a moment of private grief. There was no ceremony to honor her father’s life and no proper burial.

There was only Joffrey, fingers digging cruelly into her arm as he dragged her to the ramparts to look on her father’s severed head. 

Tyrion touches her arm, and she realizes she missed Cersei and Ser Loras paying their respects. It’s Tyrion’s turn.

Tywin is as imposing in death as he was in life, and he looks like he’s merely asleep, hands clasped around his sword, pin of the Hand of the King on his tunic, like at any moment he’s going to sit up and demand to know why everyone’s gawking.

He wasn’t kind to her, but he was fair, and he treated her better than others did in the capital. She owes him more than she could repay him while he was alive, and this moment of silence at his funeral doesn’t even come close covering what he deserves. 

He gave her a chance, gave her Winterfell, and she knows it was only because their interests lined up, but she’s still thankful for the opportunity. He gave her a loving husband, gave her her home back, and in return she gave him a peaceful North. No more talk of secession, no more grumbling about a King in the North. She made the North loyal again.

True, they’re loyal to  _ her _ , but she is loyal to Margaery, and her daughter is going to marry the King, and Sansa can’t help her smile, because the Baratheons and Starks have been reunited. Her father always told her that Robert couldn’t have won or kept the throne without him, that only a strong friendship between them kept the kingdoms together.

Sansa is not her father and Margaery is not Robert Baratheon (she isn’t, even, technically a Baratheon) but theirs is still the alliance that ensures peace.

“Why’s he got rocks with eyes on his face?” Nymeria asks.

“Hush!” Jaime says, and she looks around, worried that someone’s heard.

Sansa scoops Nymeria up into her arms even though at almost eight she is becoming quite heavy. “We close the eyes of the dead so no bad spirits can enter their body,” she explains, “but it’s not fair to blind them. We put the rocks on their eyes so that they can still see even in death.”

“So he knows we’re all here?” Nymeria asks.

“He does,” Sansa says and she smiles.

Tywin Lannister, obsessed with his legacy above all else, surrounded by his three children and their children, almost a dozen grandchildren total in the Sept right now. Surrounded by the lords and ladies of King’s Landing who used to gather to act as witnesses to Joffrey’s cruelty, who now visit orphanages and poorhouses because that’s the example Margaery has set. 

Tywin didn’t make Sansa and Tyrion’s marriage a happy one just as he didn’t turn back winter or teach Margaery to be kind to her subjects, but he was the catalyst that allowed for the peace they have now. 

His legacy is a kingdom finally united.

His legacy is all the children looking on him.

His legacy will be what their parents tell them later tonight when they ask about who their grandfather was.

~*~

That night, Sansa puts all her children to bed before she goes out to the godswood. Tyrion offered to go with her, but he hadn’t been upset when she said no. 

It seems strange to go to the godswood in King’s Landing when she isn’t fleeing an uncomfortable situation or when she just wants to be left alone. She goes to pay her respects to the Seven, to ask them to watch over Tywin as his soul goes to reside with them. She goes to pray for Jaime and Briar, for the rest of her children.

She has much to pray for, but the Seven have blessed her with a happy family, with a home, and it’s not hardship to thank them for their kindness.

When she finishes praying, she reaches out to touch the tree. The face in the tree is younger here, youthful just the way it is in the North.

It looks like Bran.

She runs her fingers across the ridges of his face before pressing her forehead to the tree.

_ The North will always remember _ , she promises him, and herself.


End file.
